Flightless Bird
by cherrycordial
Summary: Broken and lonely, nine-year-old Mackenzie Foy is given a second chance at love and family when a young couple unexpectedly adopt her, introducing her to a world of camera flashes and movie screens, new friends and memories. "I want somebody to love me for who I am, despite all my faults." — AU RPF, multi-chapter.
1. Preface

**If you've been lead here via my Tumblr, hello! Thanks for clicking on whatever link from whichever post talking about this story, I'm glad it peaked your interest enough to check it out :) If you've been lead here through something else and don't have a clue what's going on, let me explain it for you.**

**I've been in the process of writing this story for almost a year, starting from the bottom and slowly working my way towards the top. I had to start over a couple times but at the moment I'm pleased with how it's turned out. Basically it's an AU fic about Mackenzie Foy (the flawless princess who plays Renesmee Cullen), where she is an orphan and gets adopted by Rob and Kristen. She's kinda messed up and lonely and understands a lot more than people give her credit for. I know it's sad to imagine the real Mackenzie in this situation, but this story is fanfiction and I mean no disrespect in writing it. I love her with all my heart and I want her to be happy and healthy and safe.**

**Okay so, without further ado, I present to you this little prologue. It's not much to have an opinion on, but the first chapter is coming soon! x**

**_**Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!**_**

**_**Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.**_**

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><p>FLIGHTLESS BIRD<p>

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial

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><p><em>PREFACE<em>

I'm different.

There's no denying it, I'm not like everyone else. I know things they don't know. I've seen things they haven't seen. I've experienced things that define who I am, things that they are all lucky to have avoided. They don't understand. They all think I'm just some whiney little kid, but I'm not. I am no kid - I never have been. It sounds depressing, maybe even a bit dramatic - but it's the truth. I am not a child. But people treat me like one.

I'm going to tell you a story. It's not your average story but I hope you'll stick around long enough for me to share it with you. Don't expect it to have a happy ending because I'm not even sure if it will; but nobody ever said it's wrong to hope. So let's stay positive, and try to live through this together. I hope we both survive.


	2. Part 1: Chapter 1

**And now we have chapter one! I'm very excited to share this with you all, and I hope you enjoy it just as much as I love writing it.**

**If you're going to leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful!**

_**Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!  
><strong>_

_****_**Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.**_****_

* * *

><p>FLIGHTLESS BIRD<p>

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial

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><p><em>PART ONE: CHAPTER ONE<em>

The first day of my life started when I moved in with my grandmother. She was the only family I had left, since my other relatives either didn't care about me or lived too far away to come and get me. So I went to stay with the woman who raised my father, her two cats, and one grouchy Pomeranian. It was a fresh start for me after miraculously defying death, somehow managing to survive. I was four at the time and not even five percent recovered from it; already I felt different, already I felt changed. I didn't have that innocent quality in me anymore. It was gone like my parents were gone. Neither of them were coming back. I knew that even at my young age of four years old. I was a baby.

Time passed very slowly for me during the almost two years I spent with Grandma. We lived a rather simple, effortless life together, watching a special movie every Friday night and attending church on Sunday mornings. I've never considered myself religious, but I didn't have a choice if I wanted to go or not. I was a pretty mature kid, though, and I could appreciate and respect the things others enjoyed. Sometimes I would stay up really late by my window with a flashlight and read the bible, trying to understand the words printed on the thin, yellowed pages.

Of course, I was the one who suffered. Sure, Grandma might've cried a lot about her son's death. Our pastor once said, "That poor old soul and his mate taken away from us too soon." Grandma would attempt to comfort herself by saying it was what God had planned for them, which I could never wrap my little head around. If that was God's plan for my family, why wouldn't He take me to heaven as well? Why was my life worth sparing? Why them and not me, too?

On those days when she brought it up, I'd lay in bed during the night, wide awake and listening to her weeping across the hall as my own tears fell silently from my eyes. "Too young—too young," she would sob in grief. "Both so young."

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><p>The doctors all said that I had problems. Physically, I'd sustained many bruises, a broken leg, a tiny scar above my left ear from where a piece of glass had cut me, scratches covering every inch of me, and a concussion. I'd hit my head really hard on something because of the sheer force of the impact threw me in my seat. It gave me what the doctors called amnesia, a condition where a person suffers from lost memories and forgetfulness. It affected my brain to the point where I couldn't remember my parents' faces or voices or names, or how exactly they had died; and my head injury also caused me to experience painful, exhausting seizures starting the week I was discharged from the hospital.<p>

Emotionally, I was a mess. No, more than a mess—an angry demon on the inside, taking out my brutal fury on anything I first laid eyes on and shredding it to pieces. I had to take medicine to help control each issue I had and Grandma took me to visit a therapist every Tuesday to see if talking to a professional could help me in some way, to ease my anxiety—but I didn't speak. It was rare for me to even say good morning to Grandma, or to greet the kind mailman when he stopped by on Sundays. I would manage a timid smile and a wave at him, however, since I didn't want to seem rude. After a while my grandmother didn't expect an answer out of me, and I would listen to her talk for hours as I played with my toys in our small square living room. She just needed someone to hear her chatter—I was there to do that. I've always been a good listener.

Despite my everyday struggles, I was halfway happy. I had to be content with the things I had; not that I'd complain about whatever or beg Grandma to buy me a toy I saw in the store. I helped Grandma with the groceries, I fed our pets each day, I made sure the house was neat before I went to bed. It was our nice little life as far as being together went, and the only limitations we occasionally had were my fault. But my grandma was my savior and I was her guardian angel. We looked out for one another, constantly at each other's side; but this was the calm before the storm, as they say.

Grandma died on the morning of October tenth, 2006. My sixth birthday was, precisely, a month later.

I blame myself for her death—I still have nightmares about it. There was so much I could have done...yet not enough that I actually did. It haunts me, every single part of it. It's always the bad things that I remember perfectly—the good things seem to get pushed back to the darkest part of my mind. I wish it wasn't like that, though—it would truly be nice to think of Grandma without seeing the sickening image of her dead eyes, staring so blankly, lifeless and cold.

It all happened so fast, so unexpectedly. I was setting the table while she made breakfast at the stove; I listened as she babbled on about her garden club friends and how she wanted me to come with her next week to join their party. I thought that sounded like a lot of fun—putting on a fancy dress, sitting at a fancy table, eating fancy foods and whatnot. I smiled a little to myself, feeling glad that she was including me in something that I figured only big important grown-ups could do. I instantly started imagining what I would wear. Maybe my best pink skirt paired with the pale yellow shirt that had the kitten on the front...

I was startled out of my colorful fantasy of dresses and pumpkin pie by the sound of metal falling onto the floor. I whirled around to see what was the matter, and froze in horror. My eyes saw the problem—my mind just refused to believe it. Nonetheless, my body worked faster than my head did in this moment, and the plate in my hands fell and cracked on the linoleum tiled floor as I rushed to my grandmother's side. Moaning faintly, she'd collapsed to the ground before I could reach her; she rolled onto her back with a thin hand over her heart.

"Grandma!" I cried, my tiny voice hollow and scared. My vision blurred with tears as I looked at her. I didn't know what was wrong with her and I didn't know what to do and I didn't know what would happen now if she couldn't be saved. With trembling knees and tears sliding slowly down my cheeks, I managed to stand to get the phone. I dialed 911 carefully, and the silence around me was briefly broken by the phone's humming. I was shocked; even if I was always very aware of things, I couldn't fully comprehend the situation. I sort of knew in a way that this was it, the end of our time together. The implosion of my world had arrived. I didn't feel strong; rather, I felt as if God had deceived me again.

The next thirty minutes came and went in a sort of blur. I remember the faces of the paramedics, grim but determined. There were three men and one woman, and they all got me and the pets out of the house as quickly as possible. Anger and fear and frustration and pain all came out in a violent episode of kicking and screaming. The colors of it all still blind me when I look back on it. I was afraid of everything and I didn't want to leave my only home, and was struck with a terrible headache by the time we arrived at the hospital. To make matters worse, I couldn't go inside with everyone. It was a sharp, excruciating pain in the center of my heaving chest to watch them skillfully unload my grandmother from the back of the flashing white ambulance and wheel her into the big building. I sat, tears streaming down my face, in the backseat of the police car that had arrived along with the paramedics, a patient female officer stroking my long hair.

My world was imploding and I could do nothing but stare blankly as it happened.

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><p>The weeks following my grandmother's heart attack, I refused to speak to anyone and cried whenever I was by myself. For two days I stayed with our next-door neighbor, Leslie (who was twenty-something and promised to take good care of our pets), while the police tried to figure out what to do with me now that I was completely alone. I wept bitterly and loudly and sadly the morning when I was to be taken to a children's home—an orphanage. The place where kids with no parents lived. I liked Leslie, but I loved the pets even more—I didn't know what I'd do without my Buttercup, Willis, and Puffy the Pomeranian. I held my babies close to my heart and breathed in the scent of their soft fur and cried into their small bodies. I cried a lot that day, anyway—there is only one other time when I felt so helpless, so vulnerable and broken.<p>

There was more than one reason why I was so upset. One, I'd just lost my grandma, the only person in my life that I truly needed and who had always been there for me, my protector and best friend; two, I'd just lost my pets as well, three teeny animals who I adored irrationally; three, my house was no longer my home—it was almost haunted now, distant and strange; four, I'd never expected to be dumped off at an _orphanage_—I had been secretly hoping Leslie would take me in forever, but I guess you can't have everything; and five, I was alone. Grandma and the pets were my only friends; it hurt to realize they were all gone now, in one way or another. My parents' absence was more prominent than ever.

It took ages for the government officials to get me out of the car. I wouldn't budge from my seat. Like any child, I was a bit stubborn, and now I certainly didn't want to get out and discover what lay beyond the safety of the car—I whimpered and held my soft kitty lovie tightly, the white one that smelled like lavender detergent and Grandma's favorite rose-scented perfume. My heart ached with every beat, and my chest hurt as I trembled, but I wouldn't move an inch.

Then a woman came out of the ominous-looking building, her steps light and graceful despite her obvious age; I thought she looked to be at least in her mid-fifties, or early sixties at the latest, but by the way she moved and how kind her face was, she could have been much younger. She had bouncy reddish hair with thin grey streaks near the roots and wore an old-fashioned blouse and dark skirt that reminded me of my grandma. I clutched my lovie tighter—I still didn't want to go with anybody I didn't know or trust. The woman greeted the officials in a motherly voice like warm honey; it soothed me just a little, and I sniffed and dabbed at my eyes with my shirt sleeve. I was cold. I shivered harder.

"Hello there." I peeked shyly through the tangled curtain of my hair to see the woman bent down next to the car—she offered such a pretty smile, blue eyes reassuring. "I'm Miss Karen. You must be Mackenzie?"

Slowly, I nodded my head, a stray tear escaping the corner of my eye and falling into my hair. I wasn't afraid of this woman—she seemed nice enough—but at the same time she was a stranger and I was wary of her. I knew in my heart that she wouldn't do or say anything to hurt me; after all, there were more good people than bad in the world, like Grandma always said. I bit my lip and looked down at my lap. _It's okay. Say hello to her._

"H-hi," I whispered. My soft voice, shaky from crying and lack of use, fell from my lips to the floor of the car, but Miss Karen heard it, because her smile grew and I saw something flicker within her eyes—a maternal sort of shine, and I felt comforted by that. My own tiny smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, and suddenly I didn't feel so scared of everything anymore. I wasn't hopeful, but I felt better. Not okay—but better.

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><p>I adapted to life in the children's home quicker than I'd expected. My first week there, however, was rocky and I felt much too shy and awkward to introduce myself to anybody. I just sat back and watched most of the time while they played in the big backyard or the sunny upstairs room that was designated for fun. The walls had originally been pure white but I soon realized you were allowed to paint on them; that explained all the colorful handprints and drawings only children could have come up with. There was a television and a bunch of beanbag chairs to sit in if we watched a movie, and bin after bin of toys were pushed up against the walls. Play kitchens and houses sat in the corners.<p>

I found myself pleasantly surprised by this whole living arrangement. Everyone seemed quite happy and well cared-for here; nobody had to scrub the floors like in _Annie_ or wear old rags for clothes. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner was practically a feast and at the end of the day, I would go to bed full and clean and not feeling as alone as I had the day before. Still, I was adjusting to it and grieving all by myself.

I've been here for four years. Today is the tenth of October, 2010, and I'm still alone as I swing gently on the wooden plank hanging from the tree branch above me, suspended by two thick ropes. I'm nine years old now. I will be ten next month, and I don't suspect I'll have a family by then. I despise remembering last time when it happened; at first I was over the moon that someone wanted me, and it went perfectly fine for nearly two months—Mr. and Mrs. Egbert were very kind, and they already had a son who was seven. I was almost happy with them, and their little boy, Jonathan, liked going with me on walks around their sprawling Californian property; they also had a lethargic beagle and a lively pug.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the upsetting memories trying to invade my mind. I don't feel like dealing with them right now—the same way the Egberts no longer felt like dealing with me. I clench my jaw as a fierce rush of anger overwhelms me, but I close my eyes and take a deep breath before it can turn into a problem. Even if I _am_ small, there's nothing bigger than me when I'm mad. Not that I'm always upset—I'm usually a nice person. Well, I try to be.

My musings are interrupted by a pair of high-pitched voices calling my name, and I look up, surprised. My two little friends, Lilly and Addison, are skipping over to me, hand in hand with red cheeks and bright eyes. I'd never anticipated becoming friends with anybody here, but these two are silly and sweet and I like to play with them. I don't mind that Lilly is seven and Addison is five—after all, friends come in all shapes and sizes. They run up to me with big, hopeful smiles that show off their tiny sparkling baby teeth. They remind me a bit of my younger self.

"Do you wanna play princesses with us, Kenzie?" Addison asks cheerfully, bouncing in place. She has a cute lisp when she talks.

They both gaze at me expectantly. Lilly has dark irises to match her inky hair, but Addy is a blonde with blue eyes. They're both exceptionally pretty, having pink cheeks and happy grinning smiles. I feel a sharp tug of poignancy on my heart; their innocence is something I can't remember having when I was their age. It is saddening to realize that, even now, I don't feel like a kid. I'm not carefree and playful. My heart is so heavy. I know I'm not the only one here who has troubles; every single one of us are orphans. We all have a story, and I am well aware of that. The older kids might feel like I do sometimes. But they aren't like me. They don't get it.

I just can't explain it to them how they really want me to. I'm nine years old, I shouldn't be this angry.

"Um," I say slowly, realizing that they're still waiting, "I—um—m-maybe tomorrow, girls." I hate myself for letting them down when their smiles fade and disappointment washes over their features. "I'm sorry—I just don't feel like playing right now." To make them feel better, I suggest in a brighter tone, "But maybe if we get to watch a movie tonight, I can sit with you. Then we could be together, and snuggle up under my blanket."

Like fireworks, they light up again and jump up and down in excitement, yelling "Yay!" at the top of their lungs, as if sitting with me at bedtime is the greatest thing in the world. But it makes me feel good that they like being near me. The others are indifferent to my existence, which doesn't bother me at all; I prefer being by myself, anyway. It's safer for them. I was hesitant to become friends with Lilly and Addison at first, since all my issues are my biggest flaws, but they wouldn't stop asking me to play with them and eventually I gave in—and I realized it wasn't as bad as I thought. I haven't injured either of them. Yet.

They wave at me as they hop away, back into the sunlight with their hair gleaming under its glow. The swing beneath me moves forward slightly as a breeze comes through, and I look down at my fuzzy dark brown boots. The air smells sweet like burning leaves and warm like the candles in Miss Karen's office. I shut my eyes and breathe it all in, my hands limp in my lap as I let the swing push itself. I can't help but think of my grandma as the minutes pass by, and I realize it never got easier to remember her without feeling pain. Today marks the fourth year since she passed away, and the guilt only grows heavier on my shoulders. I wish I could have done something to save her. I hate that she's gone and I hate knowing it's partly my fault and I hate that the doctors couldn't do anything for her...

I'm going to go see Miss Karen. She usually has comforting things to say. She isn't a stranger anymore.

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><p>The inside of the orphanage is pleasantly cool, a vast difference from the warmth of late afternoon; it's peacefully quiet too, and smells like home. I walk down the lengthy corridor, my feet already knowing the path to Miss Karen's office. The tall, sleek mahogany doors are closed; for a moment I reconsider going in to visit her. I bite my lip, my fingers curling around the bottom hem of my shirt in hesitation. Then, uncertainly, I lift my hand to knock.<p>

There is silence behind the double doors, and then I hear her voice say calmly, "Come in, Mackenzie." She always knows when it's me. I don't understand how she does it; maybe it's the way that I knock, or the fact that I'm pretty much the only one who likes being near her without doing it to be persuasive in order to get what I want. Either way, I smile to myself before carefully turning the golden handle and pushing open the left door into the small office. She is sitting behind her grand, chocolate-colored desk in her fancy leather chair, signing paperwork with her glasses resting on the tip of her nose, the silver chain matching the thin design of their frame. I can hear the light scratching of her rapid pen.

Miss Karen glances up at me as I enter the room, letting the door swing shut gently after me. Even if I am close to her, it still feels odd coming into her office. I'm not sure why, but it might have something to do with it being _hers_, one of the very few places in the building where she can go to have some alone time. It's like I'm an intruder, except she doesn't view me as such and would have told me to go away if she didn't want me in here. I think so.

"Hello there," Miss Karen says, her honey-sweet voice as kind and gentle as ever. She smiles and I do too. I guess that's like our secret code; the very first thing she ever said to me has kept us together all this time. I will never forget that.

I walk over to her desk, running my hand along the smooth surface as I move to her side. She turns her chair towards me and lets me sit on her lap, embracing me affectionately and giving me a squeeze. I study the pastel array of documents and envelopes scattered in front of her, a mess across the desktop, curiously as to what it is she's doing with them. It's all so professional—I can't really tell.

One of the many interesting things about Miss Karen is that she's left-handed; I've never met someone who can write so beautifully with that hand. I assume the paperwork is all important legal stuff, because I see a round blue symbol printed at the top of one of the pages. I know enough not to touch anything, though—even if I'd really like to, just to look at a page up close and see what it is and who it came from. But I don't since I have to keep my hands to myself, the way Miss Karen and Grandma taught me. I sigh quietly, instead looking over to the beautiful collection of books lined up neatly on the built-in shelf by the doors. It's a unique curved piece with at least eight shelves, and merely looking at the pretty books bring out my inner reader. There are old titles and new ones, the most recent work at the bottom, and I have never seen so many books in my life. It's like a dream, a wonderful fantasy of all those stories. . .

I'm brought out of my wistful trance by the weary sound of Miss Karen's sigh. She leans back in her big chair and lets her glasses dangle from their chain around her neck. I notice she has more grey hairs than red these days, but she still doesn't seem old. She's sixty-three; her wrinkles are more prominent and her hands are thinner. She is, without a doubt, the strongest and smartest woman I know. She manages to run a successful orphanage, one that has up to at least thirty-five kids here, which is a lot in my opinion, with half of them being under five years; the rest are my age and older. Except for some assistance from volunteers, she does it all herself. And I love her very much.

She catches my gaze and smiles gently. "Come here," she murmurs, pulling me closer to her chest. I settle into her lap and let my head fall onto her shoulder, suddenly feeling super tired. Of course, I don't get a good night's sleep like everyone else; I have bad dreams, you see, and a fear of sleep has developed because of that—no, a fear of what will come _when _I sleep. You'd be scared, too, if you saw what I did, and couldn't control it.

"What do you want for your birthday?" Miss Karen asks into the silence, gradually bringing me out of the light doze I'd fallen into. I force my heavy eyelids to open, and I realize the room has grown noticeably darker. Golden rays of sunshine stream through the windows behind us, casting a glow along the wooden curves of her chair. I look down at my hands, turning her question over in my mind. What _do_ I want for my birthday? I don't really need much. But the only thing that comes to mind is the obvious response. And yet, that'll never happen.

I sigh, then shrug unenthusiastically. "I don't know," I say honestly. I have everything I want already. I'm pretty content.

But Miss Karen knows me the best. She tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear and kisses my nose. "If I could, I'd find the perfect family for each and every one of you. You all deserve a loving home," she tells me.

"This _is_ our home," I respond bluntly. "Well, my home. I dunno about the other kids, but I'd rather be here than anywhere else. We all want families of our own—mommies, daddies, brothers and sisters. If I have to stay here until I'm eighteen, I wouldn't mind." Now I'm only partly lying; I would mind a lot. I tilt my head back to look at Miss Karen and continue quietly, "This is my home. I love the orphanage. It's where I belong."

She gives me another small smile and sits up; I lean away from her and blink into the orangey light. I want to go take a nap right now; I'm so sleepy all of a sudden. Miss Karen steadies me when I start to sway, and suggests in her loving voice, "Why don't we bring everyone inside and clean up for dinner?" I grin softly, automatically nodding my head. I'm hungry, too.

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><p>As promised, later that night I snuggle up with Lilly and Addison while we watch everybody's favorite, <em>Ice Age<em>. Addy fell asleep right on my shoulder not even five minutes after the movie started, practically snoring into my ear, but Lilly is still awake, chewing on fruit snacks, her little socked feet bumping against mine. My eyes are closed and I'm hardly even here anymore, balancing precariously on the edge between awareness and slumber.

When I'm halfway conscious again, I can feel my feet moving slowly across the floor as I'm guided to the bedroom. I hear coughing and yawning and someone's tiny voice asking for water. Seconds pass and then I grasp for my sheets in the darkness, curling up beneath them with my kitty lovie tucked under my arm. I am fast asleep in moments, and I know what will come sooner or later. Instinctively I stiffen, protection from the nightmares that will plague my mind. I can't keep them from arriving, but for some reason it sort of makes me feel better to know that they aren't real. I'll wake up safe and sound. They're only dreams, right? Dreams can't hurt you if what's in them aren't actual things.

The voices start to speak in their depressing tones and unclear words, hauntingly eerie. _Here they come._

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><p>My nightmares are always the same. They start out strange and unsettling; there's the hushed voices, and that creepy feeling of something watching me or standing close to my bed. Then they progress into a genuinely terrifying display of noise and pain. I know I'm not really getting hurt; not physically, not right now. But I know that I once was. There's the sound of sirens blaring in the distance, and a person is weakly mumbling my name. I can smell the blood.<p>

My chest is tight and I can't breathe. I have a throbbing headache and my ears are ringing piercingly. I don't know what happened. I don't know where I am. I feel the wings of my heart beating against my ribs as it desperately tries to escape from my small body. Then I'm pulled from the wreckage, lifted off death's doorstep, by a pair of gentle hands; I open my eyes and see the great big moon shining high above me, a beautiful white circle that casts its glow far and wide beyond its place in the cobalt blue sky, surrounded by a million tiny, twinkling stars. And it is lovely, so lovely.

When the moon suddenly disappears, it makes me sad. I let out a lonely wail that shatters those stars. I never thought it would hurt so much to lose something I'd only known for such a short period of time. Just like my parents, the moon went away just as quickly as they did, and my life had changed without a warning. You blink once and the world somehow shifts, leaving you wondering how to turn it around again, only to realize there's nothing that you can do.

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><p><strong>Sooo? What do you think?<strong>

**I thought it turned out pretty good after I edited some things and reread it a few times. Definitely not my best but I hope you enjoyed it! If you read until the end, thank you so so so much, you don't realize how happy that makes me. Depending on the feedback I receive (if any), chapter 2 will be posted next Saturday! If you're interested enough, keep an eye on my Tumblr for Mackenzie, littlemissfoy (link is on my profile), for any new updates.**

**Thank you again for reading! Maybe follow/favorite/share? I'd really appreciate the support :)**

**— Cherry xo**


	3. Part 1: Chapter 2

**Hello lovelies! My apologies for the slow update, I was unsure if I should continue posting or not. I decided that I will for now, so without further ado, here is chapter two! Thank you to those who have viewed and followed this story, your support means so much :)**

**If you're going to leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful!**

_**Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!  
><strong>_

_**Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.**_

* * *

><p>FLIGHTLESS BIRD<p>

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial

* * *

><p><em>PART ONE: CHAPTER TWO<em>

I stare down at my plate in boredom, preferring to look at my sunny-side up eggs with toast rather than consume them. It has never been one of my favorite things to eat, and I'm not hungry, anyway. I actually don't feel very good. A queasy sensation has been growing in my tummy ever since I woke up this morning after a restless night of awful dreams and bad memories. I yawn widely and rub at my tired eyes, wanting to go back to bed and just lay there forever.

Once breakfast is over, everyone either retreats to the backyard or runs upstairs to the playroom—I follow the latter group, but instead I turn the corner and head down the hall to the nursery where the cute little babies sleep. There's actually only three infants here, two boys and one girl. When I get kind of stressed out by all my internal struggles, I like to go visit them and see if there's anything I can do to help. I personally love babies—some of the other kids think they're unexciting because they don't really do anything but drool and cry and poop in their diapers, but I think they're very cute. Six-month-old Daisy doesn't cry that much—she sleeps all the time.

The nursery is designated for the children under the age of five. Ages five to twelve share a room together—but the teenagers, the ones that are thirteen to eighteen, have their own space, too. I'm still in the five-to-twelve category, obviously, since I won't be thirteen for another four years. I don't mind being with the younger kids; it makes me feel slightly better about myself when several of them shyly come up to me and ask me to play. Addy and Lilly are the most common of them to do that, which is honestly a whole lot easier for me. I couldn't handle everybody. Being the complete and utter center of attention isn't exactly something I enjoy imagining.

I peek my head into the pastel-colored nursery. The blinds are open, allowing shafts of bright sunshine into the room, highlighting the soft colors of the giant round rug in the middle of the oak-paneled floor. Dianne and Caro, two of the orphanage's best volunteers, are here today, spending time with the seven tiny toddlers. A warm feeling grows in my heart when I see Dianne with the two baby boys in her lap, bouncing them gently on her legs as they suck on their plastic rings and watch the toddlers waddle around and do little toddler things. At one point, a small red-haired girl notices me standing in the doorway and offers a bashful, baby-toothed smile—I smile back with a wave and tentatively take a step into the room. The door squeaks as it opens all the way. As expected, all their heads turn and their eyes widen in surprise at the sight of a big kid coming in.

"Good morning, Mackenzie!" Caro says with a dazzling grin, perfectly at ease while a girl tugs a hairbrush through her dark gleaming curls. Caro looks at the small kids in front of her and says cheerfully, "Say hello to Mackenzie!"

I blush a rosy pink and smile timidly as they turn around and wave their dimpled hands at me, beaming happily. "Hi, Mackenzie," they chorus in their sweet, adorable voices. A little boy about age four gets up clumsily and hops over to me, craning his head back to look up at me. He's shorter than me by about a foot, which suddenly makes me feel self-conscious over my height, even though I know I'm probably just exaggerating it.

"I'm Colton," the boy informs me proudly. He has short dark hair and gorgeous, large blue eyes that shine like the sea. "Wanna play?"

Secretly confused as to what he has in mind—I _am_ a girl, after all **(**not that I think girls and boys aren't able to get along, it's simply that I'm older and we've never met**)**—I nod uncertainly, to his delight. "Sure," I reply, doubt coloring my quiet tone. But Colton smiles widely and grabs my hand in that rough fashion boys do, impatiently leading me over to a little area away from everyone else where he's set up a miniature racecar track with tiny cars and everything. I sit down carefully on the floor, making sure I don't squish anything, biting my lower lip.

Colton messes with the toy cars for a minute before sitting up on his knees and asking me in a curious, somewhat distracted tone, "How old are you?" That seems to be quite a popular question among young children.

"Um—" Being the insufferable idiot that I am, I suddenly forget which year I was born in and just sit there dumbly. My face goes red again and I regret even coming in here in the first place. Why do I always do things like that? I can't seem to ever mind my own business, I always have to know what's going on someplace else. And I'm not coherent around little kids anyway. They must all think I'm such a dork.

"Oh! Um, I'm nine," I blurt out, my voice higher than usual due to stress. How depressing, I'm having heart palpitations all because a four-year-old is speaking to me. I'm so pathetic. I bet no one else feels like this.

"I'm four," Colton replies, grinning confidently, holding up four fingers for emphasis. "My birthday is in April. That means I'll be five in—" He pauses, thinking for a moment, counting the months ahead until April—six more until he turns five. He yells out the answer triumphantly, "Six months! Yeah, then I'll be five. Oh! It would be, um, a lot of fun if you—if you came to my party. Will you be there, Mackenzie? Will you come to my bir'day party?" He looks up at me.

"Okay," I respond automatically. I've noticed I have difficulty saying no at times. But he'll probably forget I agreed to it, anyhow—maybe. He makes me pinkie-promise to come to his party, though, and as I hook my little finger through his, I get the feeling he may remember me after all. I wouldn't bet on it, since I'm a big downer. Nobody wants the sad lonely girl at their birthday party.

Playing with Colton is more fun than I thought. We race our cars around the track and my hand begins to hurt from when he either accidentally drops his car on it or ramming the hard metal toy into it—I guess we have opposing teams because he keeps trying to kill my driver. I laugh out loud because for once I'm happy that I'm able to be within two feet of someone so innocent and small without hurting them or getting mad. This tiny child seems to like me too—he doesn't care that I'm a girl, he just wants to play. That's all this is, just play.

A couple of the others come over and ask if they can play too. The whole thing rapidly turns into a big dispute over who gets the green car, and I awkwardly push myself away from the trouble and let Caro handle it. Colton has been using the green car for almost an hour, so it's decided that he let someone else play with it to be fair. I don't understand the draw towards something so insignificant as the color of a plastic toy car, but I suppose it is a big deal if you can start screaming and arguing over it. As Caro tries to reason with Colton, I go over to Dianne and the baby boys, Ashton and Leo. They are adorably round and chubby with big hazel eyes and tufts of light-colored hair growing on the top of their heads. Baby Daisy is lying on her play mat, kicking her miniature pink baby feet.

"Hi, Dianne," I say, leaning over to kiss the boys' foreheads in hello like I do every time I see them. A gummy smile spreads across Ashton's face and he reaches for a lock of my hair, grabbing it and giving it a shockingly strong tug. Dianne laughs when I wince, and the lighthearted sound is like a peal of bells. I laugh too, even though it hurts to have my roots get pulled.

Daisy lets out a giggly squeal at all the laughter and I direct my attention to her. "And hello to you, my petite flower," I croon in my most big-sisterly voice, gently lifting her up into my arms and holding her the right way. It makes me feel kind of grown up when I hold a baby, like I'm being trusted with this important life. Daisy likes it when I cradle her, and she smiles endearingly up at me; I wonder if she recognizes me. Ashton and Leo start to laugh all of a sudden, which makes Daisy laugh, and Leo waves his plump arm and gets drool all over his chin.

_Today is a good day so far_, I think to myself as the babies continue to giggle. The sound is pure life.

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><p>I should have known it wouldn't last. As I lay here on my bed, staring up at the ceiling as the waves of hurt roll over me in a furious ocean, I internally kick myself for thinking I could go a day without having a seizure. One day. Just one day, that's all I ask. But do I get what I wish for? No. And I never will. Hoping does nothing. I'm mad at myself and I'm mad at life for treating me this way. I'm nine years old! I should be doing normal things that nine-year-olds do. No—I should just be normal in general. But I can't change who I am and that is ridiculously sad.<p>

"I'm sorry." Miss Karen's voice is guilty—the words fall from her lips and land at my bedside, low and remorseful. _I know_, I want to say. _I know you're sorry. I know you want to help me and make it better. But you can't. _No, she can't.

I don't say anything. I close my eyes and roll over to face the wall, a lump rising in my throat. The ache in my body is nothing compared to the ache in my heart. A few warm tears escape and fall onto the pillow beneath my head; I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to keep myself from falling apart. It hurts so much and I want it to end. Suddenly I hear that song in my head. . ._I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing._ Oh, how it hurts to hear those lyrics. I can relate.

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><p>It's been a week. I've had four seizures, been to the doctor once for a checkup, and got some new medicine. Now that I'm older, I'm allowed to take two pills a day instead of one—but whatever they're supposedto do doesn't seem to help with my problems. I mean, sure, perhaps my mood swings are not as constant and my anxiety levels don't rise as drastically as they would without it. I try not to complain since I don't want Miss Karen to worry or spend more money on me just because my prescription isn't working entirely—so I act like it does and pretend to be okay, even though I'm not. It's depressing to realize how good I've become at hiding myself.<p>

The hood of my cozy purple jacket makes everything sound hollow, yet so much louder at the same time. Hugging my knees to my chest as I sit uncomfortably on a beanbag chair, I watch Spongebob and Sandy run from a giant worm while the kids around me all play with the toys and argue and laugh and pretend to be knights and princesses. I'm not in the best mood today—heck, I've been down all week, if not my entire life—so I plan on going up to the attic soon; it's the only place in the whole building that isn't inhabited by kids or littered with toys. There's a bunch of old stuff up there, like furniture and paintings and an antique clock; sheets are draped over them to protect them from dust. It's nice going up there with a good book and enjoying the easy silence, and it makes me feel safe in an unfamiliar way.

I'm brought out of my thoughts by something squashy hitting the back of my head. I jump in my seat—what the heck was _that_? I whirl around to face three younger kids standing a few feet behind me, still as statues and staring at me with wide eyes and petrified looks on their faces, like they've just disturbed a sleeping bear and are now fearing for their lives. I stare back at them for a moment, just as shocked as they are, then one of the two boys cries dramatically, "Run, she's gonna eat us!" The trio dart away screaming, leaving me to sit here in dumb confusion. Everybody looks at me.

Now is a good time to retreat to the attic, I decide. I hurry from the room, my cheeks flushing as I pass everyone, down the hall and into the kids' bedroom to grab a book and go. I perch on my bed for a minute; as I look through my small collection of stories, trying to pick which one I want to read, my heartbeat slows down—it doesn't feel like a caged bird anymore after a moment. Eventually I decide on _Charlotte's Web _even though I always cry at the end. I cry more because of the fact that this book was Grandma's favorite, and the first one of many that I ever learned to read from. This is her copy of it, actually; the one thing of hers I had to bring along.

The attic is dark and stuffy and smells strongly of mothballs. I remember to bring a blanket because it gets really cold up here the longer you stay. I find a flashlight on top of an old bookcase; I slam it on my knee a few times to get it to work, and the pale circle of light suddenly brightens up. I find a nice little spot near the back of the attic where there's a broken lamp and a creaky old rocking chair that remind me of Grandma.

I sit down in the wooden chair, pulling the blanket close around my shoulders and opening the book to the first page. I shine the flashlight down onto the yellowed paper, highlighting the tiny black print. It feels odd, in a way, reading this without Grandma. But she always told me that if I love a book, I should read it, so I will.

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><p>I wake up what seems like hours later with a painfully stiff neck and a fierce-looking Miss Karen standing right in front of me, hands on her hips. I blink into the unclear light, my eyelids itchy and tired, blearily looking up.<p>

She raises her thin eyebrows and presses her lips together into a firm line. "Well?" she says bluntly. I'm rather confused right now due to just regaining consciousness **(**which is probably obvious on my face**)** and she's demanding things of me so soon? I rub my eyes with a wide yawn, wishing I could go back to sleep and enjoy the quiet numbness. I realize that was the first time in a _really_ long time where I've slept without having a nightmare—I wonder why.

"Well, what?" I mumble irritably, untangling myself from the blanket wrapped around me. I hear a dull thud as the flashlight falls to the dusty floor and rolls away. I watch it disappear beneath an oak dresser, then glance up at Miss Karen again only to discover that she's gone. My eyes widen in alarm—where did she go? "Miss Karen?" I ask hesitantly into the darkness, withdrawing back to the safety of my blanket. My heart stutters in my chest; I'm scared. But what if this is just a dream? What if I really am having a nightmare? I try to console myself that isn't real. . .well, probably. You never know with me.

The attic is hauntingly silent except for my stifled breathing and rapid heartbeat. I'm rigid and shaking and my chest feels abnormally tight; I vaguely wonder if this is how Grandma felt when she had her heart attack.

All of a sudden my head starts to spin and I feel colder than I've ever been in my life. My teeth chatter and I breathe in sharply, watching in mute horror as glistening blue ice begins to crawl up the arms of my chair—it moves so fast that I don't have enough time to escape. The frost squeezes itself around my throat and I gasp as the air leaves my lungs. My body shivers violently as I'm consumed by the frigid cold of the ice, and it hurts like no other pain in the world.

I hear a familiar murmuring of my name just as everything goes black, but I awake with a startled jolt—the shudder ripples down my spine and into my aching legs. It takes me a second to grasp that I've fallen onto the hard attic floor, my hair clinging to my sweaty face and eyelashes. My chest heaves as I gulp down stuffy oxygen—it feels like I've been punched multiple times in the stomach. The wind was knocked right out of me. I struggle to pull myself into a sitting position, my sore, rigid joints popping with the slow movement.

I use my jacket sleeve to dab my forehead, pulling my damp hair away from my clammy cheeks. I stand up sluggishly, pushing my feet into the floor and blindly reaching for whatever is in front of me for balance. I pull the blanket off my legs and I wince at the echoing sound of my book and flashlight falling to the ground. My head pounds; blinking sleepily, I sway in place and lean against what feels like an old clock. What time is it, anyway? I rub my eyes, still weary and shaken from my dream. And what even _was_ that? I'd never had a nightmare of anything like that in my entire life. _Maybe it's the new medicine_, I think, bending down to pick up my scattered things.

I clumsily make my way to the attic door, my numb fingers fumbling with the latch before I push it up and cringe away from the light. It hasn't been too long, then, if it's still bright down there. I leave the flashlight in its place and gather my book and blanket in my arms before carefully descending the drop-down ladder. The door is, for some reason, above the hallway in front of the girls' bathroom; I won't explain it to the other girls—since it's kinda funny hearing them freak out and gossip about it—that the odd sounds they always hear aren't a ghost or a poltergeist at all, but merely a series of normal noises that the furniture and the floor constantly make. I always laugh when I think of them panicking over the creepy phantom that supposedly lives up there; it's so silly. There's no such thing.

With clearer eyes and that funny thought in my head, I give the ladder a boost and watch as it retracts up and against the ceiling. The little stool I used earlier to help myself get up there is still standing beneath it; I jump onto it to push the door shut all the way, then loop my arm through the back of the chair and drag it along with me down the hall to put it back where I found it. I receive a few questioning looks from some kids passing by—must be weird, of course, seeing little old me amble past with a blanket, a book, and chair under my arm. I blush red.

The chair thumps on the carpeted steps behind me as I go downstairs to put it back in the dining room. I'm panting by the time I make it there, shoving the chair back into place with an irritated flick of my hand and turning around to return upstairs. I catch a glimpse of the mahogany grandfather clock standing by the big front double doors; the darkening sunlight streaming through the mosaic glass creates a unique pattern on the clock's sleek wood. The time says five-thirty PM; I was only up there for about an hour, then. I pause on my way toward the staircase to watch the triangular effect the door gives off on the floor, memorizing the color of the light and the simplistic beauty of it. A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips and the sight washes away any of my doubts.

* * *

><p>If you were to go around and ask every single child in this place what their biggest dream is, you would get the stereotypical yet heartbreakingly realistic response: "I want a family." And none of them would complain if the family they did get were to be far beyond any of their expectations, because getting one in general is incredible; and it doesn't matter who they are, as long as they treat their new child right. I am no different—I shamelessly hope for that.<p>

But I just never expected it would happen to me so soon. I see Miss Karen's face—the face of an angel and the face of my savior—and at the same time I don't. I can feel the smooth leather of the chair beneath me and the cool draft of the air conditioning blowing into the small round office; and all of a sudden I _understand_ and catch little details about the room that I hadn't before, such as the cup on the desk filled with perfectly sharp pencils is blue like a robin's egg, and the paint color behind the classic furniture is not a neutral shade but of a light beige. My heart picks up the pace then slows down into a hard thump and I can hear the blood pulsing fast inside my ears.

"Miss Karen!" I exclaim, and my voice shakes in surprise and disbelief. How is this happening? All of the four years that I've been here flash before my very eyes. Every moment, every breath, every hour has all lead up to this, and my barely functioning heart can't handle it, so it beats faster and faster until I get dizzy and I feel like I might faint.

Miss Karen's eyes widen in alarm. "Are you all right, dear?" she asks anxiously, rising from her chair, coming over to me and putting her gentle hands on my shoulders. She tries to meet my eyes but my vision is so blurred with hot tears that I can't see her anymore. "Oh, Mackenzie! Don't be upset, this is a good thing!" She bends down in front of me and takes my hands in hers. "Don't cry, darling, it will be just fine this time."

"I—I'm not crying because—because I'm _sad_," I choke out, the tears spilling over onto my cheeks. "I—I'm crying because I d-don't believe it!" A wet sob escapes me and I bow my head against it. My heart is alive.

The feeling that courses through my veins is different than life and blood. I can hear it in my head as it flows through me; my fingertips and toes tingle, my head spins again, and I tremble in my seat. I don't believe that this is real life. This _can't _be real life, who would want to adopt me? I'm a mess: I need medication. I have anger issues. I'm pessimistic and tired most of the time. My nightmares are so bad that I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. It lacks basic logic for anyone to want me as their daughter. Who in their right mind would? I'm not fun. I don't do any of the things that other girls my age do. I'm not innocent or cute or any of that!

The Egberts reminded me of how completely worthless and difficult I am when they gave up on me. Who is to say that this family won't do the same? I can't go through that again, I just can't.

My happy moment vanishes as swiftly as it arrived, replaced again by the all-too familiar sensation of disappointment and self-hatred.

"I don't deserve a family," I whisper quietly, looking down at my hands as another stream of tears begin to fall.

Miss Karen is silent for a long minute, then her hands touch my cheeks and gently lift my face to look at her—the expression on hers is severe, more powerful than I've ever seen her before. It's unsettling. "Mackenzie Christine," she says in the low voice she only uses when she wants us to listen very closely. Or when she's mad. "I never want to hear you say that again. Don't ever think you aren't of any importance, because you are. And this isn't about the other children, this is about you. You deserve happiness. You deserve love and respect." I shake my head. I don't, I don't, I shouldn't. I start to cry again, overwhelmed with denial and emotion and my endless regret. As I sit there in my puddle of tears, the drops falling from my chin and onto my red flower-print dress, I remember what a blessing—for lack of a better word—it is to be adopted in the first place. I should be glad but instead I'm terrified.

I've never been more afraid in my entire life. The realization of the situation starts to settle in and I am not ready for it. Getting adopted means I'll have to leave the orphanage. Getting adopted means I'll be living in someone else's home. Getting adopted means I won't get to see Miss Karen every day. That one hurts so much I can barely stand it, and the tears flood my eyes again and pour over in a river. I throw my arms around her—it takes her by surprise at first, but she sets me down in her lap and embraces me tightly, and she strokes my hair.

I just can't leave Miss Karen. I need her, and a small part of me thinks that, maybe, she might need me too. If I'm being perfectly honest, she's my best friend, the only person who I feel comfortable going to when I need help or a hug. She's my relief, my safe harbor. If I leave now to go live with some other family, when will I ever see her? When will I get to talk to her and read books with her and go visit her in her office? The answer is obvious: I can't.

"I don't want to go away," I murmur into the collar of her blouse—she smells like vanilla and comfort. "I don't want to get adopted anymore. I want to. . .I want to stay here forever with you. I don't want to leave. . ."

The lump in my throat continues to grow and my tears keep falling. I'm so torn up and indecisive. The world is a big scary place and I'm not ready for it yet, because the day I walk out this orphanage's front door is the day I'll be stepping into a realm of new things and strange people. I feel like leaving for good would be a betrayal—I have to stay. I can't go, not right now, even if the only thing truly holding me here is Miss Karen.

"Sweetheart." Miss Karen's voice is soft and shaky, and I know she's crying too. "I know this is going to be. . .quite an adjustment for you, a new step. . . after what happened. . .but trust me, I would never let you be adopted by someone who wasn't going to be good to you. I won't let you get hurt again." I pull back slightly to look at her. "Would you like me to tell you about them?" she asks quietly, smiling gently down at me with tears still shining in her blue eyes. I can see the loss and sacrifice hidden inside them; I feel my throat get tighter again but this time I somehow manage to hold back another sob, nodding uncertainly.

Miss Karen settles into the floor with me still in her arms. "They're a younger couple," she begins. My eyes go wide with surprise and my heart flips over in my chest. "She—the woman who called—sounded young, at least. She said her name is Kristen, and her husband's name is Robert. They call him Rob for short. Or, wait—I don't think they're married just yet. . .I can't remember if she mentioned that or not." Kristen and Rob. I smile despite my pain, and a light fluttery feeling blooms in my belly. I absentmindedly reach for Miss Karen's hand, taking it in mine as I listen attentively. "Kristen said she was on our website when she found you. She saw your picture and showed it to Robert, and they talked it over and decided that they wanted you." I can hardly breathe. This is amazing.

No, more than amazing. Absolutely and impossibly and wonderfully extraordinary. I move my hand to my waist and give my skin a sharp pinch between my fingertips, wincing when it hurts—but I still can't believe that this is true. It _can't _be. . .can it? It's all so sudden and so much to process and I don't know what to say or think. What possessed this couple to want _me_, of all kids? Why not one of the cute babies or even Colton or Addison or Lilly? Why me?

Miss Karen tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. "You won't be leaving just yet, dear," she reassures me. "First I'll have to go to their house and see that it's fit for a child, and of course so I can meet them." She pauses for a moment, then adds, "You can come along too, if you'd like. It might be best if you introduced yourself as well, so it won't be as awkward when you do finally move in. That is, if you _want _to stay with them. You do have a say in this, Mackenzie." Miss Karen looks me seriously in the eye. "If you do take a liking to them, you get to live with them for a week. Then I'll come back to see how it's going, and if everything went well, we'll work out some things and after that's all done and over with, you'll officially be adopted." She smiles and my head spins at the words. It takes a second for this information to click with my brain; then I remember things.

"I know," I respond, my voice suddenly hollow with doubt and confusion. Why would she tell me that if I already know how it works? I remember last time. I remember my downfall with the Egberts. I shudder and I feel like I could throw up. I look up at Miss Karen and murmur, "I know what happens and how it'll go, because I've done it once before." I bite my lip, my brow furrowing in sadness. "What if they don't like me?" I ask, so softly that I can barely hear my own words. They tremble at my lips and fall into my lap. I frown, and it just adds to my mood. What am I going to do if this new couple decides to give me back, too? I'd probably die.

"They'll _love_ you," Miss Karen murmurs soothingly, earnestly. "I know you're still upset about the Egberts, understandably; but sometimes. . .you have to give love and family a second chance. You can't just give up on it that easily, darling."

_Yes I can_, I think bitterly. _I can and I have. _But she's right, as much as I don't want to admit it. Family is important and love is too, and yet I can't bring myself to think I deserve either of them. I don't want to get rejected again. I don't want to be refused and dismissed and tossed to the side all because I'm different and that feeling is the worst feeling in the entire world. I want somebody to love me for who I am, despite all my faults.

"I don't know what to think," I confess unhappily yet truthfully. My voice is small. I feel lonely again.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed, guys!<strong>

**We meet RK in the next chapter, which hopefully will be posted next Saturday! Leave a review/follow/favorite/share - any support is appreciated (:**

**Remember to check my Mackenzie Tumblr, littlemissfoy, for updates :) Looking forward to seeing you on the eighth! Thank you so much for reading xx**

**— Cherry xo**


	4. Part 1: Chapter 3

**Here's chapter 3! The week went by so fast, I didn't realize I only had one day left to revise this one.**

**Mackenzie's new film _Interstellar _just came out yesterday, how many of you went to see it/are going to see it? I'm really excited for it myself! :)**

**Okay so I'll stop talking and let you read. Reminder that Rob and Kristen make their first appearance in this chapter!**

**If you're going to leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful!**

_**Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!  
><strong>_

_**Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.**_

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><p>FLIGHTLESS BIRD<p>

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial

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><p><em>PART ONE: CHAPTER THREE<em>

The only thing I can think about is all the embarrassing things that are most likely going to happen to me while Miss Karen talks adoption with this Kristen and her husband-not-husband Robert. I'm going with her to see the house, and, obviously, to meet them for the very first time. I stiffen in the backseat of the car and fight back the strong urge to just open the door and make a run for it the moment we park. Ugh, I'm so not cut out for all this.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm not cut out for anything life throws at me in general. It's like I'm a fish out of water, flopping around on a wet slimy dock with itchy rays of burning sunlight shining down upon me, and I can't fight it or get back to the water quick enough, so I just gulp down air until I die. That's it, that's my life.

"Almost there, dear," Miss Karen informs me and I try not to be sick as she turns the corner. The gates of the big neighborhood are open so we just drive through them, and despite my anxiety I get curious, so I look out the window at the spotless lawns and many different houses and sprawling mountains behind them. I get so distracted by my surroundings that I don't realize the car has stopped until Miss Karen says so; my eyes widen in mute terror.

"Here we are!" she chimes, attempting to sound cheerful. I start to panic; what am I going to do? What am I going to say? How am I supposed to act around these people? I don't even know what they look like! This is the worst day of my life. I wish I hadn't agreed to come. I should have just stayed back at the orphanage. My little spot up in the attic sounds like the most peaceful place in the world right now. As I sit here with sweating palms and dizzy thoughts, the seconds tick by all too fast and then Miss Karen is opening my door and I groan.

"I don't want to do this," I whimper, sounding like a petulant two-year-old. The warm air of autumn is light on my face as the breeze blows into the car; strands of my hair tickle my cheeks. "Miss Karen, if it's okay with you, I think I'm just going to stay in here for the duration of your visit. I can't do this," I whisper, voice trembling.

She bends down to my height and reaches in to unbuckle my seatbelt. "Yes you can, Kenzie," she says. The snap of the belt sliding back makes me wince. "I know you can." I look at her hopelessly—I feel so afraid.

"Dear, we talked about this. It'll be fine." I can tell she's starting to get a little exasperated with me, as any normal person would. I'm just so nervous—I can't help it. What does she want me to do, pretend that the world is a beautiful perfect place and I'm not emotionally damaged? I can't do that, either—I am not an actress.

But I make myself get out of the car anyway, forcing my limbs to move correctly. I hate that I said yes to tagging along and I hate that I'm so uneasy and I hate that I'm not normal. Miss Karen locks the car with the key and takes my hand, leading me along the cement sidewalk up to the big house. It's a nice rectangular home with tall, swaying palm trees on either side of the smooth driveway, and the sleek front door has a mosaic glass piece on its upper half. My stomach churns my breakfast and my mouth goes dry. How I wish I wasn't present.

Miss Karen releases my hand for a second to ring the doorbell, then takes it again; her folder of papers and things is tucked under her other arm. I count down the seconds it takes for someone to answer the door; the light inside the house is bright even from here. There's a muffled shout of some sort and I see a tall figure walk into view—I gasp under my breath and step behind Miss Karen, trying to conceal myself as much as possible. I can hear my heartbeat, thudding in my ears as blood courses hot and fast in my veins. I want to be calm but the pressure is rising, like waves on a beach that are getting ready to crash down on me and swallow me entirely. . .

The front door opens and a rush of cool air swirls out onto our legs. I'm terrified to look up. Keeping a steady gaze down at the top of my boots, my heart keeps fluttering faster and faster as the voices start to speak.

"Hi!" says a nervous-sounding yet excited male voice, and it's low and captures my attention instantly despite my shyness. I peek up very briefly to see a mop of disheveled chestnut-colored hair falling into the face—the angular, strikingly handsome face—of who I assume to be Robert. His expression holds my stare for a moment—he looks breathless, eager, and anxious all at once, but his eyes are bright. I look down again before I can get caught gaping. "I'm Rob," he says, his voice a little higher than before—he kinda sorta reminds me of Colton.

"It's nice to meet you, I'm Karen," Miss Karen replies, and they shake hands. She's always composed.

"Kris—hey, they're here," he calls over his shoulder and I hear footsteps coming quick down the stairs.

"Hi! Hello!" someone chimes animatedly, and this time it belongs to a woman. But she sounds so tiny and just as restless as Robert (or Rob, whatever he goes by). And yet her voice soothes me; it's like music. Soft and smooth music. My heart slows down slightly and my legs stop aching so much from standing like this. It isn't enough, though, for me to come out from behind Miss Karen—I'm not budging until she tells me to move.

"Oh, and this is Mackenzie." Miss Karen shifts, turning around and stepping slightly to the side so I'm visible. I make the mistake of looking up, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, and with a horrified, high-pitched squeak, I dive behind her again and bury my face in her shoulder. She laughs, like this is _funny_ even if it's not. I'm nervous. I'm scared stiff. Why is she laughing? Why am I even here? I should've stayed in the car. I _really_ should have stayed in the car. I should have resisted and refused to get out. This cannot be happening. This absolutely cannot be happening.

"Dear, say hi," Miss Karen whispers, tugging gently on my hand. "Don't be shy." _Don't be shy._ Okay, Miss Karen, let me just pack up all my insecurities and nervous tendencies and throw them away, just like that.

Even so, I force my eyes to peek over her shoulder at the couple standing in the doorway. I try my best to smile naturally although it doesn't feel right, my lips turning up softly at the corners as I mumble a soft hello—my voice is small and childlike, and I hate the sound of it. Yet another reminder of why I rarely speak to anybody.

My eyes flicker to the young woman's face, and I'm taken entirely by surprise. She is so much prettier than I'd ever imagined. Her features are delicate, but they possess an elegant beauty that I've never seen before—immediately I conclude she's the loveliest person in the entire world. I don't even know her but I think she's beautiful. Medium-length hair of a honey-blonde shade is pulled up into a messy ponytail, layered pieces slipping out and falling against her flushed cheeks, and my awestruck stare only lasts for a few seconds before I shyly duck my head again, biting my lip.

"Hi," Kristen and Robert both respond, breathlessly, at the same time. I see their hands twist together, fingers entwining in one fluid motion. I get the vague suspicion it's become a habit.

There's a brief moment of awkward silence before Kristen cries out a bit dramatically, "Oh! Right! Oh—yeah, come on in, come in—" She tugs on Robert's hand, pulling him back so we can come inside. I come out from behind Miss Karen a little, still hugging her arm as I look around the front hall in admiration. The walls are deep red, the floor tiled and the wide staircase carpeted all the way up to the second story. As the others start talking in that way adults do when they first meet, my grip on Miss Karen's arm loosens and before I know it we aren't connected anymore. I walk carefully, keeping my hands behind my back so I won't touch anything and probably break it—I'm prone to doing that quite a lot.

The polished kitchen table is large and round, a fancy dark-colored carpet beneath it. The living area is big and bright, the sunshine coming through the glass wall filling up every space and corner in the room. I love the light; it's clearer than what filters into the windows back at the orphanage. The backyard is gorgeous; it has a sparkling turquoise pool and lots of pretty flowers and green plants. I get lost in the beauty of it for a while, appreciative of the pleasant sight.

Then all of a sudden, something small and furry brushes against my legs, and I swear to God I almost have a panic attack right where I'm standing. Instinctively my hand flies to my heart; I stumble backwards, a startled yelp of both astonishment and fear escaping me as a blur of brownish-black hair streaks past me with an irritated yowl.

"What the heck was _that_?" I exclaim in alarm, my heartbeat thudding beneath my trembling fingertips.

"Are you okay?! I am so sorry, did he scratch you?" Kristen's panicked voice is right by my ear. I turn to see her kneeling down behind me on her hands and knees to peek under the couch. "Max, you dumb cat, you practically gave the poor girl a heart attack!" She starts babbling nervously, standing up as the cat escapes from under the one sofa and disappears around the corner. "I'm so sorry, Mackenzie—I thought. . .Ah, you all right?"

"Um, yeah," I mumble, and I can feel how wide my surprised eyes are. I wasn't expecting that at all. It never occurred to me that they might have pets. Good thing I'm not allergic to cats. Then we'd have a problem.

"Good." Kristen pulls her messy hair out of her face and grins awkwardly; _she_ doesn't look very good.

"You look a little lightheaded," I note warily, and Robert moves to her side even before I'm done with my sentence. "Maybe you should sit down," I offer, knowing it's best to be seated or laying down if you're not totally right on your feet. I feel Miss Karen's hand on my shoulder and she gives it a gentle reassuring squeeze.

"No, I'm fine," Kristen says, more to Robert than to me. "Sorry, got up too quick. . .Hey, if you want to watch TV, you can. The remote's right over there." She points to the coffee table. "We'll just be at the thing—I mean, the—the table. Hey, is anyone thirsty? I'm thirsty. I'll go get us some drinks." I blink in confusion as she scurries past us and into the adjoining kitchen, her small hands tensing into fists at her sides as she half-runs. A funny look crosses over Robert's face, like he's trying not to laugh but be serious at the same time. Miss Karen makes a little sound in the back of her throat and pats her hair awkwardly; we hear Kristen banging around in the kitchen moments later.

"Okay. Well, let's go sit." Robert seems eager to do something other than just stand there. I am too, so as they all get settled at the big dining room table to talk business, I wander over to the TV and pick up the thin remote. Disney Channel is already on, but even though it's a show I don't like, the very last thing I would want to do is mess with someone else's remote and wind up accidentally blasting the volume or something.

So I just sit there, stiff and cross-legged on the carpet with my hands in my lap and my eyes on the TV screen, trying very hard not to pay attention to the conversation taking place behind me. Every few minutes my hands move to my hair, combing through the slight tangles and nervously pulling it around my shoulders like it is a security blanket. My hair has always been really long, about down to my elbows now, and the color is a nice chestnut shade. Despite all my insecurities, my hair has never been one of them. I think it's kinda pretty.

My mind starts wandering after a while, and I get to thinking about what my life will be like if all goes well here today. Robert and Kristen would become my parents. . .and I'd have my own room. I'd be loved and I might be happy. I could finally have a normal life. Sure, I would still be the emotional overdramatic mess that I am right now, but at least I'd have a mother and a father to help me get through it. I'd be somebody's daughter. And not just anybody's daughter—these two seemed special. More special than I'd ever imagined. He was very handsome in his guy-ish disheveled way and she was as beautiful as a princess. And they fit like puzzle pieces.

Before I know it, I hear Kristen say, "Well, let me show you around the house. Hey, kiddo, you wanna come with us?" I jump a little, startled at the sudden noise, then twist around to make sure she's talking to me—which, of course, she is. I'm the only kid in the house. For some reason I blush, and nod hesitantly in response.

I hold Miss Karen's hand again as Kristen leads us up the staircase. I spot the cat, Max, sitting beneath a small half-table of some sort pushed up against the wall; he eyes me suspiciously and flicks his long bushy tail. He has big amber eyes with some grey in them, and his fur is various shades of brown and black. I make a mental note not to disturb him in the future if he's looking at me like that—I don't want to have an enemy, even if he _is_ just a cat.

The second level of the house has two big bedrooms and an extra room that they use for storage. Their room is bright, filled with the sunlight streaming through the windows, and the bed looks comfy and soft. I like how simple the room is—everything is snowy white: the walls, the sheets, the pillows, the floor. If they plan on decorating it further, I would tell them not to; it looks perfect the way it is. It reminds me of my room when I'd lived with Grandma. While Kristen and Miss Karen move down the hall to the other rooms, I stay in the doorway to keep looking.

I don't notice Robert standing beside me until he asks, sorta shyly, "So, you, uh. . .you like the house?"

A small smile curves my lips at the sound of his voice. My hands clasp together behind my back when I answer. "Yes," I reply quietly. "I like it very much." I glance toward Max, who is cleaning his head. It always made me giggle when I saw Grandma's cats do that. Buttercup tipped over sometimes if she wasn't balanced.

"So. . .what's up with devil kitty?" I whisper, nodding my head toward the cat. "He doesn't like me," I determine matter-of-factly.

Robert chuckles. "Ah, he doesn't like anyone. Don't take it personally." He winks. "He always growls at me if I try to pet him. I don't think he'd hurt you, though," he adds quickly, and the cat glares at him as well.

We look at Max for a moment, then I ask Robert curiously, "How old are you?" I would say. . .twenty-five?

"Twenty-four," he answers casually, and my mouth pops open in surprise. He laughs at my expression and runs his hand through his mop of untidy hair. I can only stare at him. I know it's rude to stare, but I am just so in shock. He definitely doesn't _look_ twenty-four. I mean, I already knew he was young, just not _that_ young.

"And Kristen's twenty," he informs me, which makes my jaw practically fall to my stomach. Again he laughs, but then smiles at me like he thinks I'm cute. Which I'm not. I don't think I'm very cute at all. I hate being called cute or adorable or sweet because I feel like that's just exaggerating too much, since I always look so tired and unhappy. Not that I can help that, it's not really my fault that I have bad dreams and anger issues. I can't control everything that is wrong with me, no matter how hard I wish I could. Everything would be _easier_.

"Are you guys married or are you. . .dating?" I ask, tearing my gaze from the cat to look at Robert. The question pops out of my mouth before I realize what I'm saying. I glance quickly at his face, then look down at my boots as my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. I have no idea why I always forget to think before I speak. I only make situations more awkward. Heck, my very existence makes things uncomfortable.

"Uh, dating," Robert says. "I mean—yeah, we're dating." Then he smiles really big and gets a dreamy, distracted look on his face for a moment. Quite obviously, Kristen is the love of his life. No man looks like that unless he is absolutely smitten with a girl. I grin knowingly and giggle a bit. Love is sweet. . .but also dangerous.

"How long have you two been together?" I ask curiously, but hesitantly; again with the silly questions.

He snaps out of his faraway thoughts, but his smile only gets wider. "About a year and a half, I think."

"Oh." I nod politely. My feet twitch in my boots. I'm about to ask him another question that I'm really quite confused about when Kristen and Miss Karen suddenly start laughing about something in the other room. Max stops licking himself at the sound of _his _human's laugh—which is just as pretty as her voice—then gets up and hurries over to where they stand in the middle of the other bedroom, talking about whatever grown women like to talk about. I find it funny how Robert stayed out here with me rather than join them; maybe he thought I would almost trip over the cat again if I was left alone, or might break something and harm myself on accident.

I look back at him and we smile at each other shyly. I like him, he's sweet. I have a good feeling about him; I think he and Kristen both are wonderful. My tummy feels bubbly and my heart swells. I have hope now.

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><p>My brain is just not cooperating with me today. With my chin in my palm and my eyes staring at the paper, the frustration grows bigger and bigger inside of me as I try not to break my pencil in half. I glance up—everybody else is working in silence on their schoolwork, and going fast at it, I might add. A scowl forms on my lips and I wish I was in a better mood; it's easier to concentrate and get my work done quicker if I'm not as irritated. The younger kids are lucky, they only have to connect the word to its object or add one plus one and they're done. I huff out a sigh and my eyes drop back to my math page, where the top row of problems is already finished. My brain just shut down after that; I'm so tired. I yawn, then my head falls back into my hand. I want to take a nap.<p>

"Mackenzie, do you need help?" I look up drowsily at the sound of my name. I see Caro walking over, and I'm relieved—normally math isn't all that hard for me, but today I don't know what to do. Caro takes a seat in the empty chair beside me and tosses her silky ringlets over her shoulder. "Okay, so what's the matter?"

I push the page toward her and jab at it with my pencil in an aggravated way, then rub my eyes slowly. I can't stop thinking about Kristen and Robert. Yesterday went very well, in my opinion, despite how awkward things started. It ended on a good note though—I was brave enough to give them both a hug. I learned that he is from London (after which made his charming accent more noticeable) but she was born and raised here in Los Angeles. She likes cooking and reading books and he loves music and has his own guitar. I remember gawking at the beautiful instrument for about a minute and huffing out an amazed "_Whoa_," when I first noticed it sitting in the corner of their room.

". . .which equals forty. Kenzie? Are you listening?" Caro's voice is right by my ear, but it's all distant.

"Hmm?" I blink a few times and blearily look over at her. "Oh, sorry. What equals forty again?" I ask, just to appease her. She can probably tell that I'm about to slump over onto the table; I feel like a load of mush.

"Come on, let's get you into bed," Caro sighs understandingly, helping me stand up and taking my small hand in hers. I lean into her as we walk out of the room, and she squeezes my fingers. I really like Caro; I am going to miss her if this whole adoption thing works. But if I'm still allowed to see Miss Karen, hopefully I will get to visit with Caro too. She's gentle and soft and I like her hair, plus she's nice to me. I like nice people.

When we reach the kids' bedroom, Caro guides me to my bed and takes off my shoes. She tucks me in and makes sure I have my kitty lovie with me, and I mumble a quiet thank-you before I promptly fall asleep. A feeling of complete exhaustion rolls over me, and then I'm not even here anymore. I go for a long time without even dreaming; but I know that the nightmares are coming, because they always do. I'm never free from them—I just have to live through them, that's all. So when I hear the voices start to whisper at the edges of my mind I don't panic; I merely stiffen under the covers, holding my lovie tighter and hoping I won't scream. I try to think of happy things, but my subconscious conjures up images of all the stuff I desperately try to _avoid_. But I guess hiding from the things that scare you only makes them more terrifying when you finally have to face them again.

I see Grandma. The memory is just as sharp and clear as it always is. I'm standing above her—my legs are short and stubby, and I feel a lot younger. I'm five years old, going on six, and my grandmother is dead. My life has just changed in such a drastic, heartbreaking way that words are not enough to describe the pain it brings me. Nothing can be done for her at this point and part of me knows that she's gone but another part of me doesn't believe it. I'm crying, the tears budding in my eyes and falling, warm and fat, down my face. She stares up blankly.

That's always what gets me: the staring. Two eyes, wide open and lifeless. An echo of fear is drawn upon her gently wrinkled face. When the whispers get louder and start chanting my name, that is when I wake up.

Sweat trickles down my face and neck, soaking into the collar of my shirt and making the plaid flannel stick to my back. I gulp down cool air, my chest heaving as I breathe in and out, head spinning and heart heavy from my dream. Blood pulses through my veins and I'm so warm. I kick off the covers, my eyes streaming and hot, and I rub them with a shaking hand then try to sit up. The bedroom is filled with an orangey, early evening light, filtering through the windows and onto the floor, and my breathing smoothes out and my lungs don't hurt as much after a moment. I look down at my lap for some reason and close my eyes. I can still hear the whispers while they speak to me: saying my name, talking about Grandma, bringing up things I'd rather not think about.

_I have to pee_, I think vaguely, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and carefully standing up. My head spins for a moment as the blood flows downward, and when I can see again I make my way to the door; I wonder what time it is exactly. I'm still stiff and tired, leisurely ambling my way towards the girls' bathroom; I am a miniature walking zombie, if you will, with grey circles under my eyes and fatigue weighing me down. I hear a collection of voices coming from the restroom, and I suppress a sigh as I get closer. I prefer it when it's vacant.

I hesitate outside in the hall, wondering if it's worth it to go in. After a long moment of contemplation, I decide to just wait until nobody else is in there and go later. If I wasn't such a shy, socially awkward coward I would be able to just go in for a second without bothering anybody then leave. With another sigh, I turn around and head back the way I came. My feet drag and my eyelids droop, but I make it to my bed before I collapse. A voice unlike any of the others finds its way through my head as I drowsily pull on my favorite pink nightgown; it murmurs to me softly when I pull my legs back up and curl up under the covers. It's a lovely, soothing voice.

"Go to sleep," it says softly, and I recognize it somehow, a distant memory of a woman I once knew a long time ago. It's been years—or at least feels like it—since I've heard that voice. Tears suddenly spring to my eyes and I squeeze them shut tight so I won't cry. I bring my lovie up to my face. "Go to sleep; no more tears."

In my head, I imagine a tiny little girl curled up beside a young woman under a blanket made of stars—the child is crying, clutching something small and white in her dimpled hands, and her mother holds her, trying to calm her down with words. Just words. That's all it is, just words. I push my face into my pillow, pulling my knees up to my stomach as only a few tears escape. Life is hard and the words aren't enough to heal me. I thrive, just barely, but my existence is meaningless. I'm not destined to do anything special. Contrary to what Grandma used to think, I wasn't put here for any reason at all other than to wreak havoc and stress among the few people I still have.

Eventually I fall back into a deep but restless sleep, listening to the words. Warm tears continue to fall.

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><p><strong>I now realize that this one is much shorter than the others, and I'm so sorry for that! Chapter 4 is longer and will be here next Saturday on the 15th, so keep an eye out! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Leaving a review would make my day!<strong>

**Link to my Mackenzie Tumblr is on my profile; remember to check there for any updates :)**

**See you all soon!**

**— Cherry xo**


	5. Part 1: Chapter 4

**Here's chapter 4! I forgot to mention in my note on the previous one that I acknowledge that the adoption process in this story isn't the same as how it is in real life; I just didn't want to bother with background checks and all that stuff because I did more research after I'd started writing. So, things are gonna be a little different here, but I just wanted you guys to know I understand how it actually works.**

**Anyway, happy reading!**

**If you're going to leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful!**

_**Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!  
><strong>_

_**Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.**_

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><p>FLIGHTLESS BIRD<p>

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial

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><p><em>PART ONE: CHAPTER FOUR<em>

My head hurts today. My numb fingers slowly gather up my things, placing them carefully inside my suitcase; I never realized how many books I have until now. Most of my belongings are books, actually. I pack them on top of everything else, my pajamas and clothes and socks and some miscellaneous stuff at the bottom. I feel weird; it's like I'm packing to go on a vacation, but I won't be coming back. My throat suddenly tightens and I don't want to leave anymore. I stare down at the picture frame in my hands as my eyes fill with an ocean of hot tears.

The application went through. Whoever is in charge of the whole adoption business called Miss Karen earlier this morning to tell her that everything is all set. Of course it won't be fully official just yet; I get to stay with Robert and Kristen for a week, and if all goes well and I'm happy, then they'll sign extra papers and I will be adopted. I'm familiar with this, seeing as it happened before with the Egberts, but this time it'll be all right—I know it will. I just. . .have to stay positive, that's all. Keep looking on the bright side and whatnot. I breathe in deeply and dab at my eyes with my jacket sleeve, afraid that if I start crying, I won't be able to stop ever again.

I put away the photo of me and Grandma, gently placing it in between two of my softest shirts. I check to make sure I have absolutely everything, looking under my bed and in my nightstand's drawer, and when I'm satisfied that I haven't forgotten anything, I just stand there with my hands on my hips, looking at the suitcase—_every single item I own is in there_, I think idly to myself. _My clothes, my books, my pictures, my hairbrush. All of it._

"Kenzie?" a tiny voice asks from the doorway. I look up, startled, and my eyebrows raise in surprise at the sight of my three little friends—Lilly, Addison, and Colton—all standing together with poignant faces. Lilly holds Addy's hand tightly in her own, as she so often does, and Colton blinks at me and juts out his bottom lip.

"Aw, hey, guys," I say with a small smile, walking over to them and bending down to pick up Addy as she releases Lilly's hand and raises her arms for me. She's gotten heavy; I stumble a bit, but I stay on my feet.

"Are you leaving?" Lilly asks sadly as Addy buries her face in my neck. Lilly's dark eyes shine wetly.

"Yeah, I am," I confirm, and my voice trembles. Colton promptly bursts into tears and throws his little arms around my legs, and Addison shakes her head in denial, clutching the hood of my jacket in her hands. My previous attempt at trying to stay optimistic shatters; I never thought anyone would become this attached to me—it hurts to have to leave them behind. They're so vulnerable and innocent and I'm going to miss being around them (even if I only met Colton a little over a week ago). They accepted me and liked me when no one else would—I would bring them all with me if I could, and Miss Karen too; I can't forget her either, she's the most important.

"Mackenzie?" Dianne's voice drifts down the hall and through the door. "You ready to go, sweetie?" I close my eyes when Addison lets out a sharp wail of despair and starts to cry into my neck. Lilly looks down at her feet to hide her tears, and I feel my heart crack inside my chest. Dianne climbs the stairs and hurries over to us, concern coloring her features, her blond waves bobbing on her shoulders. I hold Addy tighter. I want to die.

"I don't want Kenzie to go!" Addy sobs in a raspy, broken voice. Colton clings to my legs, hiccupping and trembling. Dianne's face falls and her eyes grow sad when she looks at me. I don't know her very well, but after seeing her almost every day for the past four years, it feels strange knowing I'll be leaving her behind too.

The next few minutes progress in a slow blur. Somehow we end up downstairs by the front doors but I don't remember moving my feet to get there; and then reluctant little Addison is lifted gently from my arms. She's crying so hard now and Colton hasn't let go of my leg, and I'm afraid that Lilly is going to start bawling here in a minute. A group of kids have formed near the top of the staircase, and others are coming in from outside. The last thing I need is an audience, watching me cry along with the little ones as they refuse to let me leave. I have my suitcase next to me and the clock is ticking—Miss Karen will soon be here to say goodbye before I have to go.

"Hey, guys, it's—it's okay," I try to console the trio of crying kids. Colton looks up at me tearfully. He sniffles and hugs my leg even closer to his little body. "I know I'm leaving, but hopefully I can still come over. You know, just to visit. We can see each other then and we'll play together! Doesn't that sound fun?" I attempt to smile through the tears streaming from my eyes, and Addison reaches out her hand to grab a lock of my hair.

"Yeah," she mumbles, nodding her head on Dianne's shoulder. She looks at my hair, her tiny face sad.

"But it won't be the same without—without seeing you every day," Lilly murmurs. "I really love you."

"Aw, Lil." I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, bending down to her level. "I love you too." I mean it more than I thought I would—yes, I love Lilly. I love Addison. I like Colton a lot. They're my friends, even if they're younger than I am—still only babies if you think about it—they are my friends and I'll miss them dearly.

Colton wraps his arms around my neck and leans in to give my cheek a wet kiss. "You're still going to come t' my birthday party, right?" he asks hopefully. "You pinkie-promised, you have to be there." He looks at me very seriously, his eyebrows pulling together over his big blue irises and a frown tugging at his full lips. He stares intently into my eyes, and the longing hidden in his makes me realize how much he wants me to attend. I never break my promises, no matter how small, so I return his gentle hug with a fierceness I didn't know I had.

"I'll be there," I whisper into his shoulder, and his small hand pats my back comfortingly. "I promise."

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><p>"Hey, um. . .I made this for you." Abigail, one of the three fourteen-year-olds here, shyly holds out her palm. A small turtle figurine is handed to me, made out of clay but painted shiny brown and mossy green, and a gasp of surprise escapes my lips. I carefully take the miniature turtle and bring him up to eye level to get a better look. The detail and perfection of something so tiny is incredible; I can tell Abigail put a lot of time into creating it.<p>

"Wow," I breathe in amazement, looking up at her face. She smiles timidly, glancing down at the floor and rubbing her left ankle with her other foot. "This is awesome. Thank you so much!" I'm genuinely thankful.

"You're welcome," Abigail responds warmly, her smile growing. "I'm glad you like it. Because I do."

"Lemme see!" Colton hops up and down to try, tugging on my arm to get my attention. "Ohhh! Cool!"

Soon enough, a group of curious toddlers have formed around me, all wanting to see my clay turtle—and they lose interest just as quickly once they realize either it's not real or that it isn't exciting enough. Kids are so funny. And already I can feel how hard it's going to be to wake up every morning knowing they won't be there anymore; that is, if this week is a success. I think it will. I've got to stay positive, I've got to keep my head up.

But I don't feel very positive at all for sure when Miss Karen walks out of her office. The blood drains from my face and yet again my eyes sting with unshed tears; I put the turtle in the pocket of my jeans. I realize, with panic trembling in my belly, that goodbye is coming and goodbye is walking towards me. Goodbye seems to be all I've ever known and this time I don't think I'll be able to survive it. Not Miss Karen, not Miss Karen—I just can't say goodbye to her. She has to come with me, so I won't miss her so much, so I won't be all alone.

"Miss Karen, where is Kenzie going?" little six-year-old Mia pipes up squeakily. "On a trip to Paris?!"

Miss Karen laughs as a few kids go over to her to give her hugs. "No, dear, she's not going to Paris." I watch Mia's face crumple in disappointment at this news, her lips forming a pout as she crosses her arms. "She is going to stay with some new people for a while," Miss Karen continues in a soothing voice. "They'll be here soon. Speaking of which—Mackenzie, do you have everything packed?" she asks me, and I nod slowly, sadly.

"Good." I can see her smile is forced, and I refuse to meet her eyes for fear of breaking down in tears—which is the very last thing I want to do in front of everybody. "Well, Kenzie and I are going to go wait outside until they arrive, okay? Give her big hugs, everyone," she encourages, attempting to sound optimistic. I can't take it.

All of a sudden I find myself surrounded, awkward limbs trying to embrace me, with a noisy chorus of voices saying goodbye all at once. I bow my head as another wave of salty tears make their appearance, sliding out from under my clenched eyelids and slipping down my empty face. I hear the voices and I feel the love and support from the children hugging me, and it's all too much. I don't deserve their hugs or their farewells, but at the same time, it makes my heart swell up inside to know that they care. I'll miss them. I'll miss this place, too.

Oh, the orphanage! My safe haven, my home. I wish I could just take it all with me. Then I'd feel safe.

As everyone detaches themselves from me, I reach for my suitcase and dab at my watery eyes with my jacket sleeve. I feel Miss Karen's hand touch my shoulder lightly. I take some encouragement from the motion, even if nothing seems very uplifting at the moment. My heart is breaking for the thousandth time. Right in two.

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><p>It's warmer outside than it is in the building. My eyes are closed, the sweet-scented breeze blowing past me, on my face and ruffling my hair and drying the tear tracks still smeared on my cheeks. Miss Karen stands with her arm around my shoulders, and we are equally still, both lost in our own thoughts as we wait. Seconds tick by.<p>

"You know," she says, her smooth, pensive voice breaking the growing silence in a soft murmur. I pry open my eyes, the light momentarily making them sting, but I blink a few times and look up at her attentively—I want to hear what she has to say. "When I was a little girl," she continues, watching the cars drive by in blurs, "I once read a story in the newspaper about a small orphaned boy. He was no older than two when his father or mother left him on the doorstep of another orphanage. He had some sort of illness, and they left a note with the boy explaining they couldn't provide proper medical assistance due to their lack of money." She pauses. I wait.

"So, the orphanage took him in. They did what they could for him, but unfortunately he died. He had such a high fever, the poor little thing, and his body couldn't take it any longer. They buried him the next day, with all their other orphans present. That was the day the article in the paper came out, and after I read it, I started thinking."

"What did you think about, Miss Karen?" I ask, my voice a mere whisper; her thin face is hard to read.

"I thought about the orphans in general. I wondered how I could make a difference to their lives. I was aware that I couldn't do anything excessive, but I started by going around asking for donations from everybody in my neighborhood." She laughs suddenly, and the sound is warmth and memories. I remember its detail, counting the seconds it lasts before she starts to speak again; I store it in the part of my mind where I like to keep such things. If I start to miss her too much, I can just recall her laugh or her voice and feel a little better. That usually helps.

Miss Karen tells me all about how she raised up to five hundred dollars for the orphans and their home just by going door to door and asking people if they had any extra cash to donate. I just can't believe I've never heard this story before—I know a lot of things about Miss Karen, but this is definitely brand new information. I now look at her with even greater respect; of course she would do something like that. I am not surprised at all.

Suddenly I sense in my gut that Robert and Kristen will be here within the next thirty seconds, so with a strength I had saved up just for this moment, I throw my arms around Miss Karen's middle and hug her so tightly that it probably would physically hurt someone else. After a moment she bends down and takes my face in her hands; she kisses my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, before embracing me firmly and holding me to her like she won't ever let go. Words spin through my head, things I desperately need to say but won't be able to get out in time. I wish I could tell her how much I appreciate all that she has done for me, how much I love her and will miss her—but words aren't enough. They are never enough. All my life, I've struggled with words; now is no exception.

When she pulls away, her glistening eyes are filled with those words, with love, and another emotion I can't begin to understand. She knows. She just knows. Words are unnecessary because we say it with our eyes, our movements, our emotions. _Thank you_, we both say, and I mean it—I mean it from every part of me there is.

Then I smile. I don't know why, but I smile. A small little grin tugs up at the corners of my mouth and Miss Karen smiles too. She hugs me again, gentler this time, and I breathe in her warm scent of vanilla candles and hope.

I hear the sound of a car turning onto the quiet street, and just like that, our silent words are over. I dab at my eyes with my arm and run my fingers through my hair a few times, fixing it around my shoulders while I try to look presentable. I'm wearing my favorite pair of dark blue jeans, a purple t-shirt, and a grey jacket with sneakers; but I've got so much hair that it's hard to have the patience to brush it all. The car is coming closer to the building and my heart is pounding like a train rushing down its tracks. I reach for my suitcase. I'm shaking.

The small, shiny grey car pulls to a stop by the curb, and I grab Miss Karen's hand when they open the doors. I see Kristen's head pop up first; to my instant surprise, her shoulder-length, unruly hair is now cocoa-brown. I remember it being sort of orangey-honey-blonde two days ago. But I quickly realize that she looks just as lovely with both hair colors, and that she could be bald and still be pretty. I like this new change, it suits her just right.

"Hiii!" she calls out in a cheerful voice, waving at us. We wave back, and the biggest smile spreads on my face at the sight of her. Robert is just as handsomely disheveled as ever. I can see he tried to make an effort to tame his hair, but I like how it looks; like Kristen's, it suits him. I'm so happy to see them that I release Miss Karen's hand and hurry down the concrete steps, my hair falling against my back as I jump the last one. Robert scoops me up into his arms, twirling me around before setting me back down on my feet. I laugh lightly, joyfully.

"Hello!" I say brightly, hugging him around his waist. "I missed you since I last saw you! I've been so excited to see you guys again because I really like you and I think you like me so I hope this week will go okay because I would love, love, love to stay with you guys forever and ever since you're so nice to me and all that stuff."

I don't even realize what it is that I'm saying; I just hear my shrill voice and the trembling words as they come out. But Robert smiles down at me kindly, and something sparks in his blue-grey eyes that gives me higher hopes for this week. "I'd like that," he says to me, his voice warm, just as Kristen comes up behind me; she puts her arms around me and kisses my cheek. I giggle like a six-year-old and turn around to give her a hug too. She's warm and soft and smells faintly of perfume and clean sheets; sort of like Grandma. Light, but there.

I hold on to Kristen as she greets Miss Karen, who has come down the steps to say hi with my suitcase in tow, since I forgot it in my briefly energetic moment of delight. They talk for a bit—meaning, Kristen and Miss Karen talk while Robert and I listen patiently. I peek over my shoulder at him, and he notices and winks at me. I wink back, or at least try to, before looking down at the tops of my scuffed shoes and grinning wide from ear to ear.

Eventually, it's time to go. My smile fades and my stomach plunges to the ground. This is it. This is it, the moment where everything will change. I'll get into that car and by doing so I will be leaving behind my life to start fresh. As long as this week goes without fault, I could be happy, I could have a family. And, maybe, if I were to be asked if I'm okay, I would be able to answer as honestly as I possibly could—that might be a yes, or an I-don't-know, but I promise myself to never say no to that question for as long as I can help it. For just once I could say, "Yes, I'm okay. Not just better, but okay. I'm telling you the truth. I'm doing perfectly fine—I'm great."

And being able to answer that question with a big sincere yes will be the most rewarding feeling of all.

* * *

><p>I wrestle with an ocean of feelings as I sit silently in the backseat of the Mini Cooper, trying to untangle myself from the brute force of the emotions trying to pull me down. I want to cry bitterly and elatedly at the same time but I can't, and so I don't. I just stare numbly down at my hands—trying to figure this out, why I'm afraid now.<p>

Miss Karen and I shared another goodbye before I got into the car; she said to mind my manners, to be respectful of other people's property, that whole no-touching-without-asking-first rule. I promised I would not forget, because I don't want to disappoint her. We hugged again, holding on for a few more seconds. Then it was really time to leave and it felt like my poor heart was being ripped right out of my chest by life's ruthless hand.

"Do you like ice cream?" Kristen's soft, hopeful voice interrupts my train of thought, and I glance up—she's looking at me over her shoulder, a tiny smile on her lips. I'm confused by her question. Ice cream? Now? She sees the distant, puzzled look on my face and explains quickly, "I mean, ice cream always makes me feel a hundred times better, so I just assumed maybe it helps you too. I mean, if you like ice cream. I—I mean, y'know, there's a Dairy Queen around the corner, if you wanted us to us stop by and get you something—whatever you'd like."

She talks so fast that I barely have time to register her high-strung sentences; I've noticed this happens when she's nervous. I guess the rising pressure of the silence in the car is getting to her. "Oh—um—" I attempt, with awkward half-success, to thread together my own anxious response. "Yeah, I like ice cream," is that reply.

Ten minutes later, I've got chocolate dripping on my chin and my tongue poking out to catch a drop of it that's about to fall from my spoon. The atmosphere is a lot more lighthearted now that we have ice cream; it definitely brightened my mood about fifty percent. I wipe my mouth with a napkin before asking, "Do you like to come here a lot? You know, get ice cream and then eat it here in the parking lot instead of just going inside?"

"Actually," Robert says, spooning a big bite of mint chocolate chip into his mouth, "we don't do this a lot. We don't have the time—mostly due to our, uh, schedules. . ." He glances over at Kristen; she's looking out her window at something I can't see. Curious, I lean over as far as my seatbelt will let me go to get a peek at what she is staring at. At first I don't see anything out of the ordinary, but my eyes widen and I almost drop my cup when I spot the pair of guys holding large black cameras and wearing baggy shorts and backwards, faded baseball caps. They're loitering near a big, dusty brown truck parked in front of the Dairy Queen.

"Who the heck are _they_?" I ask in a disapproving tone; I don't like the looks of them. They look mean.

Kristen mutters a profanity under her breath, and I hear her mumble, "How did they even find us here? It's not like we give off a signal every time we leave the God damn house. . ." Startled, I make a funny face at her choice of words.

"I don't know," Robert says in a suddenly grumpy tone, putting away his ice cream and starting up the engine. Kristen continues to mumble swears and keep a constant lookout while I'm just sitting here in the backseat, holding my now-melted ice cream and frowning in absolute confusion. What in the world is going on right now? Who are those guys? And why is Kristen cursing them to "the fiery pits of hell where they belong"?

The mood in the car is at an all-time low; it's like a dark cloud has literally formed over us and refuses to move. I settle awkwardly into my seat, continuously wondering just what the heck is happening. I hope their house isn't too far away, because I'd feel a lot safer if I was inside of its protective walls instead. This is weird.

"Um," I say, my uneasy voice shattering the tense silence and reminding them of my presence, "would either of you like to tell me who those guys were? Because they seemed pretty darn suspicious to me." I frown.

Kristen sighs heavily and twists around in her seat to look at me; her expression is strained, as if she is afraid of alarming me, or making me uncomfortable if she says too much. She meets my eyes for a second, and the look we share ranges between wanting to talk but waiting for the other to say something first. Eventually, she speaks up and tells me, "They're called the paparazzi." She says it like they're some sort of gross infection, or maybe even a swarm of mosquitoes that you can't get rid of. "Their jobs are to find and take photos of famous people to sell to the tabloid and gossip magazines to make money. That's what they do, they go around with their stupid cameras and harass celebrities all the time. They're vicious and mean, like thugs."

I blink. I'm even more confused than I was two minutes ago. It takes me a moment to find my voice to speak again. "Why in the heck were they at Dairy Queen? What, did a famous person show up? Matt Damon?"

Kristen laughs a very awkward, very obvious laugh and runs her hand through her full hair. "Er—well, no, not Matt Damon," she responds, and I notice Robert's fingers tighten ever so slightly around the wheel. My eyebrow arches a little at the small movement and I look at Kristen again. Her eyes are on him pleadingly, but he just keeps on driving, seemingly not wanting any part of what she is about to say. She sighs again, then glances up at me and says, "Those guys came for us." Which completely sounds like a cheeky line from an action film.

I just stare at her, mouth somewhat agape as I try to understand. "But—_why_?" I ask, perplexed.

"Well, because. . ." Kristen makes a face and scratches her ear uncomfortably. "Because Rob and I are, you know. . .famous." She mumbles at the end and suddenly becomes very interested in her flaking nail polish; she presses her lips together and refuses to look at me again. Robert continues to drive. I stare at Kristen, upset.

"Ummm, o-kay," I say slowly. "And why didn't either of you—I don't know—remember to put that on the application _before you sent it in_?!" I know I'm doing exactly the opposite of what Miss Karen told me but I honestly am annoyed that nobody told me this crucial piece of information. "How exactly are you two famous? Well, I'm guessing you're famous enough that paparazzi follow you around and find you to take your picture. That much is obvious."

"Yeah, uh, I guess we did forget to mention that," Kristen says sheepishly with a little crooked smile. I look at her pointedly, wondering if I should be mad or pouty or in awe. Most kids would probably think it's the greatest thing in the world to have their possible future parents be famous. And I guess it's cool, but I just wish I'd had some time to mentally prepare for it in advance. I'm not mad or anything, just irritated that nobody said anything about it until now. I lean back into my seat and scowl down at my cup of melted ice cream.

As Robert drives through the gates to their neighborhood, I look out the window at the passing houses. "So, why are you famous?" I ask again, since neither of them answered the question the first time. Now I'm curious.

"Oh, right," Kristen responds, still picking at her nail polish. "Well, we're actors." She says it casually.

I raise my eyebrows. Well, I shouldn't be so surprised, we _are _in Los Angeles. "Oh. Like, in movies?"

They both nod. This time, it's Robert who answers. "Yup. We've done a few together, actually." I'm now assuming that's how they met, by the way they look at each other when he says that. "I _meant _to write that whole thing down, but I guess I forgot." He looks at me from the rearview mirror. "Sorry about that, honestly."

My frustration dissipates and I shrug, twirling my spoon around in my cup. I don't think I've absorbed the whole ordeal quite yet, so I haven't reacted properly. _If_ there's a proper response to something like this.

I become increasingly happy again when I see their house up ahead. "Ohhh! Yay, it's your house! You guys have a really nice place. Doesn't it seem a little big for just two of you, though? I mean, if that's what you like, then I'm not one to judge, but it's nice anyway. Oh, that's right, I forgot you guys had Max. So that's only three. But still, it's a big house for three people. Well, Max isn't really a person, he's a cat, so nevermind. But I would think that you guys have a smaller house, kind of like this car. I mean, I already know your house is big, since I've seen it and I've been inside it, but just by looking at you two and then the house it's like, 'I just can't believe that that's their house.' Because like, you know how people say that the size of someone's house is like the size of their car too? Oh, I don't know, something like that. So I would think you'd have a small house too."

Robert and Kristen look at each other for help, searching the other's face for some trace of assistance—I see the lines of amusement forming on their features, and suddenly they both start to laugh really hard. Meanwhile my face is as red as a tomato since I literally have no idea what I just said. I want to choke up my ice cream.

"Um, sorry," I apologize shyly. "I—I don't know why I—said that." I grimace.

"Oh my _God_," Kristen eventually gasps, swiping the back of her hand across her eyes. "You're a trip." She looks at me with a new look of tender affection on her face and smiles. "I'm sorry," she says sincerely, but I dunno what she has to apologize for, I'm the one who just started blabbing random stuff about cars and houses. "We weren't laughing at you, kid." She grins ruefully. "Really, we weren't. That was just—hilarious. Oh my God, you're so funny. . ." She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens up the passenger door, still giggling about it even if I don't see why it was so humorous. So I made myself look like an idiot again, big deal. Why is it funny?

It's comfortably warm outside, a drastic change from the air conditioned interior of the car. I stand there for a moment as Robert gets my suitcase out of the trunk; I look around, feeling the wind on my face, and wondering if this is real life. Because it feels pretty darn unrealistic all of a sudden—it's like I'm not even _here_.

I turn around. They're waiting for me, patiently standing there until my moment is over. I look at them—I notice their height difference, their clothing, their silhouettes stretching far on the pavement as the blood-red and orange sun sinks into the mountains behind them. And as I slam the car door shut, as I go over to them and slip my small hand into hers, as we start the walk up the driveway to the front door, I feel hope swell up inside.

Because you know what? This time, it will work. This time, I'll be loved. This time, I'll have a family.

And there is not one thing in this whole entire world that can take that possibility away from me again.

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! Maybe leave a review telling me what you think? :)<strong>

**Chapter 5 is coming next Saturday! Remember to check littlemissfoy for new updates - link is on my profile!**

**See you on Saturday!**

****— **Cherry xo**


	6. Part 1: Chapter 5

**Here's chapter 5! Lots of family-ish fluff in this one :) I hope you enjoy!**

**I'd also like to quickly remind everyone that I am aware of the weird things Mackenzie says sometimes, but she's only going on ten and is still just a kid so of course she's gonna say some strange stuff. ;)**

**If you're going to leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful!**

_**Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!  
><strong>_

_**Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.**_

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><p>FLIGHTLESS BIRD<p>

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial

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><p><em>PART ONE: CHAPTER FIVE<em>

The soft cotton of my pajamas is comforting on my skin as we watch _The Incredibles _together on their bed. It's really late—my guess is at least eleven o'clock, if not later—but no one has shown any signs of fatigue yet. Our little party is the most fun I've had in a long time; they really got a lot done in just two days. I'm still surprised.

I shouldn't be, though—Kristen and Rob (which, as it turns out, I am allowed to call him that and have been able to all along) are very smart, and quite obviously, when they want something, they'll work hard to get it. They stocked up on fruit snacks, graham crackers, juice boxes, various cereals, chocolate milk, and basically just stuffed their fridge and pantry with stuff that kids might like to eat. They turned the other bedroom into my designated area; I'm not too sure about that one yet, but the bedding and decorations they picked out are pretty, and there is no way I will ever say no to my own room. After years of sharing one with a bunch of other kids, a special room to call my own is like getting to go on a free trip to wherever I want, whenever I want; practically a vacation.

And so far this is the best vacation of my life. The whole day has been a whirlwind of emotions, but at the moment I feel calm and lighter than air. I've never seen this movie, which is rare because I've seen most Disney and Pixar films. It's really good so far, and I'm thoroughly enjoying myself, wedged cozily in between Rob and Kristen. I unravel a Fruit Roll-Up and stare at it in amazement; Miss Karen never let us have stuff like this back at the orphanage.

It tastes even better than it looks, even if it has been artificially flavored to taste like "wild raspberries"—whatever flavor _that _is supposed to be. I bite down on the strip and tear off a piece.

Kristen is eating a pack of Spongebob-shaped fruit snacks, and Rob is dozing peacefully to my right; which is a shame, considering he's missing the whole movie. I like how his hair falls into his eyes as he sleeps, it's kinda sorta cute. I look at him for a while, distracted by his face, noticing subtle details about it that I hadn't before: his straight nose, the color of the stubble lining his sharp jaw, the shape of his ears. . .I've never seen a face like his. He's striking.

"So, uh. . .how did you guys meet?" I ask in a whisper, tearing my gaze from him to look at her, taking another bite of my Fruit Roll-Up. "Rob said you've been together for about a year and a half. I'm just curious."

"We first met—well, um, you already know that we are, y'know. . .famous," she gives me a sideways glance when she says that, but I don't even flinch. "Okay, well, we met at an audition. I'd already gone through it a lot of times already with a few other guys. We were at the director's house, Catherine Hardwicke's. Anyway, Rob—ah, man—" she snickers, "—Rob came in with his head down, and I thought to myself, _Who's this guy? _He was different from the others, I could just feel it. I liked the other guys but I didn't know if they were the right one, you know? I mean like, the one for the part." That's not what she meant. Not really. "So anyway, I did the same scene with Rob, and it was really funny because, um—like, the script called for, you know, us to do this scene on a bed, so like. . .we had to kiss and stuff, and then he—and then Rob fell off the bed!" Kristen cracks up at the memory, and hides her face in her hands.

I laugh too, out of politeness; I honestly have no idea what she just said. Well, I do, but she talks really fast sometimes and stumbles over her words. Not that it's a bad thing, it happens to me all the time—one of the reasons why I normally like to keep my mouth shut. Like I should have earlier today before I started rambling about their "big house."

"Wait, what?" Rob mumbles suddenly in a sleepy voice, and Kristen gasps and covers her mouth with her hand. Rob groans and rubs his eyes; I watch him, finding it interesting to watch other people wake up, if that doesn't sound odd or potentially creepy. It's just different, seeing them open their eyes and be normal rather than scream and fight things that aren't really there. And it gives me hope that maybe one day I could be like that, too; sane, normal.

"Oh sorry, did I fall asleep?" he asks, and flinches away from the blinding brightness of the television.

"You were tired, it's okay," I reassure him. "You didn't miss much. Just. . .most of the movie." I smirk.

"Oh." He rolls onto his back and stretches his long limbs, yawning. I finish off my Fruit Roll-Up and I do the same, curling my toes, raising my arms above my head as my joints pop. Kristen tickles my tummy with the tips of her fingers and I squeal, caught off-guard, but then I laugh because it's funny; she grins down at me.

Eventually I'm laughing so hard that my sides hurt, and my breath comes in hiccupping gasps. I giggle loudly and childishly, but neither of them seem to mind. In fact, they seem to like the sound of my laughter and aren't annoyed by it. I don't know why everything is so funny all of a sudden—must be all the sugar I've had. I already know I'm going to have a hard time falling asleep tonight, but right now I don't care. I feel full of life—like I could do anything at all and I would succeed. I guess that's what being with someone does to you. Makes you happy, makes you fearless. I like being with people—it's so much better than being all by myself.

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><p>"Okay, sooo. . .which is the better lazy dinner, microwavable leftovers or pizza?" I ask, biting into a fruit snack.<p>

"Uhhmmm. . ." Kristen stares up at the ceiling and taps her lower lip, bumping her foot against mine as she thinks. Rob tips his head back and shakes the last of his pop rocks into his mouth, watching her pretty face, a small smile on his. After a serious moment of thought, she says in an assured voice, "Pizza, definitely pizza."

"I thought so too," I say, nodding. My stomach is already starting to hurt from all the candy I've eaten. "I'm still trying to figure out where I've seen you guys before." Abruptly changing the subject, I sit up carefully so I won't puke on the perfect white sheets. "Because I know I have but I can't remember when or where. But I've seen you before, I know it. I just gotta keep thinking." I scrunch up my face in concentration, looking at him to her to him to her and back again.

"Well—maybe you saw us on TV once, in a trailer for something," Kristen hints helpfully.

I sift through my countless array of memories, trying to remember which one where I saw them for the first time—of course, back then I was completely oblivious to the fact that this night would exist however many months later. It takes me a while to finally see the image in my head again, and I let out a delighted shriek and stand up as wild excitement fills me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. I see it now, I see _them_ on a television, a group of kids sitting around it, staring at the screen. I see Rob's face and I see Kristen's, and I just can't believe that it's them behind the makeup and the contacts and the sparkles. But it's them, it has to be.

"_You guys are from those—those movies with the—with the vampires_!" I exclaim at the top of my lungs, jumping up and down on the bed and waving my arms erratically. My heart is beating fast, my smile a mile wide.

They both laugh, watching me celebrate my euphoric success. This is amazing; I mean, yeah, I have never seen their movies—neither has anyone else at the orphanage, for that matter—but it's still exciting nevertheless.

Unexpectedly I slip on the sheets and tumble back onto the mattress, a tangle of limbs and hair.

"Whoa, you okay?" Kristen asks, her voice both concerned and amused; her laugh dies on air, and I'm not sure if I'm breathing or not. I see colors, bright colors, and they hurt my eyes; my chest and throat feel raw, so it hurts to breathe, and my head is full of uncomfortable pressure. I hear Kristen talking to me, alarmed now, and I wish I could make it stop so she won't be afraid. Because I don't like to scare people, it makes me feel so guilty.

Kristen says something else, something I can't hear; the hollow crashing in my ears drowns out sound. I'm cold, but at the same time I'm hot, and shivers trail over my skin, goosebumps rising on my limbs. I feel so vulnerable. . .so helpless. Wasn't I okay just a few seconds ago? My eyes are open, but I don't see, which makes it all so much worse. I hear Kristen as she speaks, but I can't make out the words.

And then, suddenly, it's over—just as soon as it started. I blink multiple times, and I can breathe again. I somehow manage to prop myself up on my elbows, my heart fluttering so fast.

"I'm fine," I gasp; my voice is weak, and it comes out shaky. "I'm fine, I'm okay." Which is half a lie.

"Oh thank God," Kristen breathes, and she sounds like she's on the verge of tears. "Rob! Rob it's fine, she's alright," she calls over her shoulder, and I tilt my head back to see her swiping at her eyes with her hand, and the guilt rises so high and so fast that my chest feels like it's collapsing into itself again. Tears spring to my own eyes, and I scramble to sit up and give her a feeble hug. My attempt at reassurance takes her by surprise—she pauses, then her arms wrap around me and she returns the hug, gently but firmly. I bury my face in her neck, shivering. She smells so good and it's comforting to me, and I stop feeling cold after a few seconds. I like her hugs.

"Everything okay, guys?" Rob asks, worried, as he comes back into the room. Through the tears in my eyes, I look up over Kristen's shoulder at him, and a look of immense relief washes over his features. He walks over to us just as I release Kristen and settle into her chest, tucking my head beneath her chin, glancing down. I can still hear my heart beating, slowing down to its normal steady pace, and my skin sort of hurts in a weird way.

"You don't want me to call anybody?" Rob whispers, and I assume he's talking to Kristen. She shakes her head and holds me closer, and I listen to the thump of her own heart; I close my eyes. Rob sighs, and I hear him drag his hands across his face—a lump rises in my throat as fresh tears of remorse well up at the corners of my eyes. What have I done, what have I done? What is wrong with me? Why do things like this always happen to me? Why must I cause panic and fear among the people who actually like me? All I do is mess things up. My very existence is a mistake, and so many people have gotten hurt over me. I'm a burden and I don't deserve anyone's love at all.

"You okay, Kenzie?" Rob asks me softly, concern still laced in his voice. I nod slowly, and the curtain of my hair conveniently falls into my face, shielding my wet eyes from view. I bite down hard my bottom lip, a sob building in my throat, but I swallow it down before it can escape. I don't want to cry in front of them. How embarrassing would that be? I've already made a fool out of myself countless times already.

"I'm sorry." The words fall from my mouth in a shaky whisper, barely audible even in the silence. The amount of guilt I feel is honestly saddening for a girl my age—almost ten-year-olds shouldn't feel like this. But since when have I ever been normal, since when have I ever been like other girls my age?

"What are you apologizing for?" Rob's voice is astounded. I peek at him from behind my hair and I'm taken aback by the look on his face. It's immense confusion mixed with very slight frustration, like he wants to understand why I would say such a thing but can't. He shakes his head and says, "Don't—don't be sorry, we're just. . .worried about you. But don't be sorry, nothing's your fault." Which is ironic since everything is my fault. But it makes me feel somewhat better to know that he doesn't blame me or hate me. . .yet.

I sniff and dab at my eyes with the cotton sleeve of my pajama top. I nod, and have the bravery to tuck my hair behind my ear, revealing my face to them both. Kristen moves her hand up and down my arm, and that small motion means a lot to me; it shows that she cares, that she wants me to be okay. And then I reach out to take Rob's hand, my fingers wrapping around his and squeezing them gently. I don't even realize when I do.

* * *

><p>I wake up to the sound of silence. I'm lying on my back, buried beneath the softest comforter in the world with my head on a fluffy pillow. As my vision adjusts, I gaze up at the ceiling, wistfully remembering my dream. It was the most wonderful dream I've ever had. Oh, it was, it truly was! But a small, sad smile forms on my lips, because that's all it was. Just a dream. Tears prick at my eyes and I sigh softly. Another day at the orphanage, yet again.<p>

I rub my hands over my face, yawning, then let my arms fall to my sides unenthusiastically. With a tiny groan of despair, I push myself up onto my elbows, squinting as a beam of white sunlight hits me in the face. It takes me by surprise; from where my bed is placed, this usually never happens. I blink in confusion. Where the heck am I? I gaze around the white room as the realization slowly sets in. My heart first stutters to a halt; then I feel it start back up again, going twice as fast as it did before, fluttering against my ribcage. I stop breathing for a moment and my head spins round in circles. The memories of yesterday come rushing back to me, really fast.

Quickly, I look to my left, where I finally spot Kristen, sleeping peacefully beside me. I lay back down, turning onto my side to see her better. She's on her stomach, one arm hugging her pillow and the other hanging above her head. Her tangled mess of cocoa-colored hair falls in soft pieces across her shoulders and neck. I just now notice how flawless her skin is, a lovely creamy-white shade with a pinch of rose in her cheeks. A light dusting of freckles are speckled along her nose and below her eyes; her lashes are full and long.

Warmth fills me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. Oh, this is real, I can't believe this is real! Kristen is real and Rob is too, and I don't need to see him in order to know that he exists. I'll be staying here for a whole entire week. One whole week with the two most amazing and interesting people on the planet!

I roll onto my back and sit up. My smile is so wide that my cheeks are starting to hurt, but I don't care. How can I not smile when I'm here? This house is a wonderland, owned by my possible future mom and dad. I can hardly wrap my head around that fact, and my smile only grows bigger as I quietly crawl out of the big bed, careful not to jostle the mattress too much, since I'd hate to wake up Kristen; she looks so calm and tired.

I tiptoe out of the room, closing the door with deliberate slowness behind me. A shiver trails like a snake down my spine at the sudden change in temperature; it's warm and cozy out here, unlike the bedroom—it feels like Antarctica when you walk in. I can hear the faint murmuring of the television, and I grip the railing as I descend the staircase, rubbing my eyes again and pulling my uncombed hair out of my face. My toes tingle when they come in contact with the cool tiled floor, and I quickly realize that it is probably only warm upstairs.

I nervously walk into the bright space, biting my lip, my hands hiding in my sleeves. My steps become slower and slower as I look around, noting how everything looks in the morning sunlight. I can hear something sizzling in the kitchen; the smell of eggs and bacon hits me a second later, and I close my eyes and breathe in. I don't normally eat anything like that (at least not willingly), but the way Rob is cooking it makes me want to. I would definitely eat it.

"Hi," I say timidly, leaning around the corner so as not to startle him. He's standing at the stove in his pajamas with his hair sticking out in every direction imaginable. He jumps a little at my sudden, hesitant voice, but turns around and gives me a wide smile when he sees me standing there. I smile back—I'm glad to see him.

"Hey," he says in his charming British voice as I skip over to him and throw my arms around him. My unannounced sign of affection doesn't seem to bother him at all; he just hugs me back with one arm, since he's holding onto the pan of sizzling eggs with the other. His soft white shirt is comforting on my skin as I hug him, my cheek against his side, my bare feet touching his. The silence isn't awkward in the slightest; it's just natural between us, and no words need to be said. He gently rubs my shoulder, almost absentmindedly; I shut my eyes.

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks, and I tilt my head back to see his face.

"Yeah, I slept fine," I reply honestly. "Thank you." My lips quirk up into another smile. Suddenly, I'm struck with another realization—I slept through the whole night without having a nightmare. Not a single one. "_Oh_!" I exclaim, detaching my arms from Rob to cover my mouth with my hands, delighted. "Holy macaroni!"

"What?" he asks with a little laugh, but he has no idea. One whole night without the dreams. I'm dizzy with excitement, and to let out some of that happiness, I spin and jump around in circles, and Rob just watches.

"Sorry, I just—I can't believe it!" I hop some more, clapping my hands. "You see, um—well, I kind of, uh, have nightmares. Sometimes. Well, okay, all the time, like pretty much every night, and they're bad. So, so last night, I didn't have any nightmares, and it's been so long since that happened, and I'm just really happy!" I can't put into words how excellent I feel right now. Even if it was just for one night, freedom is still incredible.

"Oh." I can tell Rob isn't sure how to respond, and his smile wavers a bit, but I'm too distracted by the whole situation to care. I hug him again, almost trembling with joy. "Well—that's great," he says finally. "How would you like to celebrate, princess?" And my poor heart can't take all the happy feelings inside me.

Emotion overwhelms me quicker than I thought was possible. And it's not just because that I slept and didn't have a nightmare, it's also because this is real life and I haven't gone crazy and starting hallucinating. At one point in my life, I told myself to just stop hoping, but a tiny part of me never did. And now that I have such a wonderful chance to get adopted, it's hard to realize that and not be swept away by an ocean of feelings. All I have ever known is anger and loneliness, but now. . .just one little word, one term of genuine endearment, that's all it took. He called me _princess_.

"Oh no, what did I do?!" Both his hands make a grab for my shoulders to try and keep me on my feet—but I've already fallen, my knees collapsing out from under me and buckling against the floor. A sob chokes its way out of my throat. Rob bends down next to me, forgetting the eggs, gently placing his hand in my long hair. "Hey, what's the matter? Did I say something? Oh, God, I said something wrong, didn't I? Oh no, I'm sorry—"

"N-no," I stutter, salty tears slipping down my cheeks. I shudder and swipe at my streaming eyes. "I'm okay, I just—it's not your fault, you didn't do anything." I breathe in shakily and try to compose myself. I want to explain and tell him that he didn't do anything wrong but I don't get the chance, because a second later there is a loud beeping sound from above and everything starts moving very rapidly. Rob lets out a shocked yell then scoops me up off the floor and deposits me on the living room couch before racing back to the stove and trying to extinguish the small flames that have erupted over the pan of eggs. I watch in mute horror, my mouth agape.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_! Holy shit—" He manages to put out the fire by tossing a cup of water on the pan.

The alarm continues beeping as ashy smoke rises to the ceiling. He coughs, waving it away from his face, and I immediately feel another wave of guilt roll over me for the thousandth time ever. My cheeks turning red, I sink low into the couch cushions, curling up onto my side and trying to escape the humiliation that now stirs within.

I must have been born with an awful case of bad luck, because stuff like this just doesn't happen at all.

The darkness of the cushions in my face is calming and safe. I must look very uncomfortable, but it doesn't matter. With my knees tucked into my stomach, arms covering my head, I close my eyes. I don't think.

"What the _hell_ is going on down here?!" Kristen's drowsy, irritated voice is muffled; but even so, how I'm hiding doesn't dim the volume. Alarm makes my heart beat faster and I gasp in fear. "Rob, what—what the—I smell smoke!" A stray tear escapes the edge of my eye. I stiffen, my muscles reacting in panic. My ears start ringing, which is never a good sign. None of this is a good sign. It means more terror is on the way, and there's absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. My fingers grip my hair so hard that it pulls at the roots. I don't feel pain.

_Not now, not now, please not now_, I silently beg whoever has cursed me with all my trauma. I can't let them see me like this. Last night was just a false alarm, but the real deal is so much worse. There aren't enough words in the English dictionary to describe how it feels to have a seizure. Mostly afterwards, when I get sick to my stomach and sleep heavily for the rest of the day—I don't really remember much of the actual seizure at all, to be honest.

The deep thump of my frantic heart resonates off my eardrums and pounds inside my head. Something whispers to me in the back of my mind, telling me to stop fighting, to stop pushing away my fear. _Do not listen to them, Kenzie_, I remind myself repeatedly. _Don't let them beat you. _But I just can't, I'm too weak.

Rob and Kristen are talking over each other, their voices climbing the smoky air. I can't breathe, and it scares me. There's a sharp moan, a short silence, then the sound of my name being called before all goes black.

* * *

><p>"Oh God, oh God, oh God." The voice is panicked, slurred by tears and fright. "Oh God, oh God. . .no, no, no." Soft fingers lightly touch my face.<p>

"Kris, it'll be okay. She'll be fine. Remember what Karen said? This happens all the time. She's fine."

The second voice is hollow, stunned. My head turns a fraction of an inch towards it; it sounds familiar.

"Wh-what do we do?" the first voice—the woman's voice—asks fearfully. "Do we call somebody? We should call somebody. Where's my—where's my phone, I'll call 911." _No, don't. Please don't. I'm not dying!_

I try to move, to lift my numb fingers, to make some sign to let them know that I'm okay. I don't want her to cry, I don't want either of them to be afraid. Because that fear will manifest itself into something big and I'm not sure what I could do to fight it. My head hurts, like it's been forcefully smashed into a wall, and I can't see anything. I can only hear the words being spoken beside me and the faint sound of movement. I feel sleepy.

_Wake up, wake up_, my inner demon growls furiously at me. _Wake up, stupid, open your eyes._

"Wait." I don't recognize the sound of my own voice; it's gravelly and strained, and comes out quiet. I try to lift my heavy eyelids, with poor success, but I manage to move my hand a little. "Don't—don't call 911."

"Oh! Hey! Hi, honey," Kristen murmurs quickly, and her fingers gently touch my cheek again. "You okay?" I nod, very slowly, but even the small movement hurts my neck, and I wince. "Do you need anything? I can get you a blanket if you're cold—or—or, uh—are you thirsty? I can get you a drink if you're thirsty, no problem—"

"Kris, shhh," Rob whispers soothingly, trying to calm her down, and her nervous voice trails off. I feel so many things all at once and I can't put them into words. I want to ask them if they know what it is that they are getting themselves into, because I'm pretty sure that they don't, because if they did, I wouldn't be here, on their couch, slowly recovering from yet another seizure. I don't want to put them through this. Nobody here on this earth should have to except for me. They don't need this kind of darkness, pain, and fright in their lives.

_I'm not good enough for you. You deserve a happy child, a bright little girl who is healthy and _normal. _I am not normal and I never will be. _"I'm sorry," my voice whispers, but my own ears barely hear its soft echo.

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><p><strong>As always, thank you for reading, and the next chapter is coming on the 29th! Have a great Thanksgiving, everybody :)<strong>

**Link to my Mackenzie Tumblr is on my profile!**

**— Cherry xo**


	7. Part 1: Chapter 6

**Hello again :D I hope you all had a nice Thanksgiving.**

**Okay, there's a few things I'd like to say that I hope you take a few seconds to read, because it's important (to me, at least). I'm moving in about a week, and since I only just started writing chapter 9 - and kinda slacking in progress, to be honest - I won't be updating until we're completely settled and I've found the inspiration to keep writing. I haven't lost interest, don't worry, this is just how I operate as a writer; some days I write like crazy and then other days I only open Microsoft Word in case I get bored. Certain fics I start without having any intention of ever finishing, but this one I'm going to see through to the end, I promise :)**

**Anyway, I apologize deeply for those of you who have to wait for chapter 7! It'll be here sooner than you think, though :) Also, once I start writing more chapters quicker, hopefully I can start updating twice a week instead of just once on Saturdays. We'll see!**

**If you're going to leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful!**

_**Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!  
><strong>_

_**Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.**_

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><p>FLIGHTLESS BIRD<p>

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial

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><p><em>PART ONE: CHAPTER SIX<em>

I enjoy the taste of Kristen's chicken noodle soup. Swaddled in a cozy blanket, watching morning cartoons as I practically gulp down the noodles, I sit in front of the coffee table with Kristen on my left side and Rob on the couch behind me. I fell asleep for a good two hours after my seizure, but then woke up starving and wondered if I could please have some soup, which was the first thing that came to mind when Kristen asked what I wanted. Now I see her give me slight glances every few minutes as she eats her own late breakfast of toast and eggs in silence.

The ceiling fan above sends cold air down onto the top of my head. With a shiver I pull the blanket over my hair and tuck it closer around my shoulders. Kristen bops me on my nose when she stands up; I grin at her, and she smiles back. I wiggle happily in my blanket. Despite the somewhat disastrous events this morning, I find myself beaming, wider than I have before in my life. Their house is like what I imagine heaven to be like—happy, comfortable, safe.

Rob taps me on my shoulder to get my attention and I twist around to see what he wants. He waves his phone and asks hopefully, "Can I take your picture?" I raise my eyebrows in surprise, then doubt settles in, and I don't know what to tell him. Of course, I've been photographed before, lots of times for different reasons; but right now I suddenly feel self-conscious. I look so stupid with this blanket over my head, why would anyone in the world want to take my picture? I probably resemble a psycho zombie. But, after a moment of thought, I give in to it. I'll do it for him. Just this one time, though.

"Sure," I say, turning to the side. My attempt at a smile is pathetic, but Rob doesn't seem to care—he's just glad that I said yes. He taps the screen of his phone, which is obviously the camera in this situation, and I see him grinning and I don't feel as silly anymore. So I make my best funny face for another picture, crossing my eyes and sucking in my cheeks like a fish, and he laughs. I do too, because I'm weird. That was unnecessary.

I wind up laughing myself silly from how dumb I look when Rob shows me the pictures. I'm not some psycho zombie after all, instead resembling a rosy-cheeked foreign girl with my blanket around my face like that. Rob is all smiles; it's like he can't get enough of my laughter, which is high-pitched and bubbly, childish and sweet. For a second I can't remember if I'm almost ten years old or not—that's how babyish my laugh is.

"Miss Mackenzie, what are you laughing at?" Kristen calls lightheartedly from the kitchen, and I stifle my giggles with my hands, my face heating up but my shoulders still shaking with amusement. I share a glance with Rob, whose smile only gets bigger, and I fall onto my back and become entangled in the blanket. Today is a really weird day, I realize, with so many different emotions and events happening all at once. But I would not change it for the world. It's a good day so far, even if it's so different from what I'm used to. Different is good. At least they haven't changed their minds yet.

I lay there on the floor, wrapped up in my blanket and my funny feelings, my laughter fading in the air as my thoughts settle back into my mind. I can hear Rob and Kristen talking quietly in the kitchen; I stretch out on the carpet, kicking myself free from my blanket but keeping it around me because I prefer the warmth that it gives me. I push myself back up into a sitting position, yawning and glancing at the TV; Spongebob is playing. He's training his pet snail or something.

I rub my eyes, then stretch out my limbs and listen as my joints pop in unison. I look over the couch in curiosity toward the kitchen, where Rob is leaning against the counter as Kristen rinses off the dishes. He looks at her so adoringly, so tenderly, so _wholeheartedly_ that my point of view on romance shifts almost instantly. I always believed that true love was spoken through little gestures such as bringing her flowers and kisses on the lips the moment he walks through the front door after a long day of work; romance could be anything you want it to be, with whomever you wish to spend your time with, but it never came to mind that such infinite love and awe could fit into a single glance. His blue eyes say the things he wants to tell her but can't, and it is beautiful. Sometimes you don't need words to show that person you love them.

I sigh a little wistfully, admiring that look, admiring _them _in general. I want my future husband to look at _me _like that—when I don't notice, when I'm doing something absolutely ordinary, but he'll still stop to stare, watching my every move with affection. I don't know why, but I find myself blinking back tears, and it startles me at first until I realize that it's okay. I _should _feel this way. I _should _be understanding what it means to love.

"You guys should get married," I inform them sincerely, and without a hint of regret in my voice, because I'm not ashamed to say what's on my mind when it comes to such a powerful subject. Love needs to be heard—shouted from the rooftops, called down from the stars. Love is extraordinary and I want everyone to know that.

They both turn their heads at the same time, faces mirroring the other's expression of surprise. The tap water continues to run heavily into the metal sink, colliding with the sound of the television behind me. A little smile blooms on my lips and I give them both a slight nod of encouragement. I can only imagine the thousands of poofy white dresses and fantastic sculpted cakes that there could be in existence, and I feel giddy when I see Kristen in my head, dressed in a gorgeous snowy gown with lots of lace and a silky veil that frames her angelic face. . .

Amid all the exciting possibilities swirling around inside my head, I catch Rob and Kristen look at one another like, "maybe the kid's got a point." But they're too stunned to speak, though I didn't expect a reply. My intent was to simply remind them that marriage is still an option. Of course, just because you're in love doesn't mean you _have _to get married—you could spend the rest of your life with someone and don't have to be legally wed. It's not a requirement, you should be able to do what you want. I just think that these two are perfect for a beautiful wedding. She would look like a queen in her dress, and him a handsome king in his suit, watching as she walks down the aisle, so graceful. . .

A dreamy smile is on my face as I think about it, totally indifferent to my surroundings. I only hear the church bells ringing and see the smiles on their faces when they say "I do." I'm so caught up in the happy sight that I hardly notice when Max jumps up onto the couch beside me and bumps my ear with his head, purring. His soft fur on my cheek makes me laugh, and I gently stroke his neck, watching as he arches his back. I guess he's warmed up to me after all. He smells just like Buttercup and Willis; he has the same familiar cat scent I haven't remembered in a while—it brings back memories of cold winter nights when my cats would curl up next to me, and I'd pet them and sometimes sing to them until we all fell asleep. I miss those nights; they meant a lot to me.

"I think Max likes me now," I say aloud, distractedly, as the cat leaps languidly into my lap, meowing.

"He should," Kristen's voice chimes, and I look up to see her leaning over the back of the sofa. I smile when I see her, and she smiles back. "Why wouldn't he like you? You're awesome." She reaches out to rumple my hair fondly, and I grin bashfully at the compliment, my face heating up. Max tries to get comfy, looking for the right spot to curl up in, biting my blanket and kneading my legs with his little kitty paws. Cats are so weird.

"I used to have a couple cats," I say in a detached voice, not even aware that I just told her that. "Their names were Willis and Buttercup. I also had a Pomeranian, this little poofball we called Puffy. He was old, like thirteen when I first went to stay with Grandma. I had to carry him everywhere because he had arthritis all over—but Grandma would sometimes joke that he was just lazy like my grandpa used to be." I laugh at the memory, and Kristen smiles gently; her green eyes are attentive, focused as I speak. And I find that the tug on my heart I always feel when I think or talk about Grandma isn't as painful as it used to be; suddenly I'm scared of myself.

Am I forgetting her? Has time finally caught up to me, erasing the years we spent together? That's impossible, though, I still remember everything about them. But there's something inside of me that's gone, far away from me by now, a piece of my heart that's missing and I can't get back. A bit of my soul that isn't there anymore.

I try to compose myself before my face can give my feelings away, but it's too late. Kristen is quick to react, as she so often is, and hurries over to me right before I start crying. I can't help it; I can never help it. It's like an instant response to things nowadays, it's uncontrollable. I wish I was stronger, I wish I could pick up all the parts of me I've lost and put them back together again. But I am no puzzle. I'm much more frustrating, a lot harder to have the patience and time to fully understand. But if I can't save myself, then who else would be able to?

I feel Kristen's fingers running through my hair, gently but soothingly, like she just _knows_. She knows I have to let it out. She knows that by repeatedly _telling_ me it's okay won't _make_ things okay, so she doesn't. And I'm hit with the realization that I barely know this person—I barely know her or her boyfriend, no matter how safe I feel if I am with them. They aren't strangers, but I still know hardly anything about either of them. I have to admit that.

I'm not necessarily bawling, though I'd like to—when I'm alone, in a place where I can cry loudly and not have to worry about scaring anyone. I struggle to hold in the sobs that are building in my throat, forcing the tears to stop falling. I miss my grandma and our pets and I wish things could go back to the way they were, just for a little bit longer, so I could appreciate what I had and not feel guilty for letting it all pass me by so quickly. Because time moves forward too fast and we all take it for granted. How I wish I still had Grandma. I need her.

I stare down at my lap dismally, feeling tired and dizzy all of a sudden; my head hurts and there's pain in my chest, the strength of pressuring sobs pushing at my lungs and heart. I dab at my face with my sleeve and sniff, trying to pull myself together. Kristen continues to stroke my hair and her eyes anxiously search my face.

"Sorry I'm such a mess," I mumble, my voice coming out in slurred jumble of words. I hate it. I hate my voice.

"You're not a mess," Kristen replies in a murmur, leaning closer to kiss my forehead. Her hand falls to my shoulder, sweeping my hair back over it. "It's okay to be sad, honey." She gives me a comforting smile and taps the end of my nose, very lightly with her fingertip. "It's okay to just not be okay," she adds when I laugh a little at her touch. I nod understandingly, feeling somewhat reassured by her words. I don't feel as lonely now.

I sigh, blinking the remaining tears from my eyes. I somehow manage to muster up the courage to ask, "Could I—could I take a bath?" I'm itchy, and I want to change out of my pajamas. Baths make me feel alright.

"Oh, yeah, sure!" Kristen concedes, visibly pleased. She helps me back onto my feet, and I tug the soft blanket off my shoulders and set it down on the couch. "We've got a big tub in our bathroom, if you wanna use that one. Rob can make lots of bubbles." The last sentence makes me laugh; that sounded so funny. Rob makes this weird sound in his throat and his cheeks go slightly red, like he's embarrassed, and covers his face with his big hands shyly. He stumbles away into the kitchen, shaking his head and stifling his own laughter; it's so cute.

"Okay, we're leaving now," Kristen says, an arm around my waist as we head for the stairs. I press my lips together to keep from laughing out loud again, waiting until we're upstairs to let my giggles loose; his embarrassed face remains in my memory, blushing and self-conscious, and I just laugh harder. I don't know why it's funny—there was just something about the way Kristen said "bubbles" and how he reacted to it that makes me giggle.

And just like that, I'm okay again. No more tears, no more sadness for now. I've got Kristen with me and that should be enough.

My suitcase is at the foot of "my" bed, where it's been since last night, everything still tightly packed—with the exception of the pajamas I'm wearing right now, all my belongings are here. Even so, I check to make sure that nothing fell out somehow during the transition from one place to another; but no, luckily I have all my things.

"Would rather use your tub?" Kristen calls from the bathroom as I gaze at my kitty lovie nostalgically.

I vaguely process the question, tracing the shape of her tiny heart-shaped nose. I remember Grandma's excited face when I pulled the soft cat out of my stocking on Christmas morning, 2005. I can still feel how new and perfect her fur was, still see how the gleam in her black bead eyes glinted off the lights on the trees. To this day, she has always been my most treasured gift, and I would be absolutely devastated if she got lost, since she is the very last present Grandma gave to me, ever. One last thing to remember her by, one last gift of pure love.

"S-sorry, what?" I break out of my trance, eyes wet, looking over in the direction of Kristen's voice. A funny feeling of nostalgia has grown within me, my heart wrestling with the pain of the past. For a moment the world seems distant and strange, a planet that I don't understand. My head spins slightly, and I take in some air before I pass out. Then I remember that she's waiting for a response, and I say hurriedly, "Yeah, sure. Alright."

She smiles lightly and disappears around the corner; there's a brief silence before I hear the water start flowing into the bathtub. I sigh quietly, holding my lovie to my face one last time before I gently place her into my suitcase again. I gather up my necessities and a change of clothes for when I get out, chewing my lower lip.

The bathroom is filled with warmth, steam fogging up the large mirror above the porcelain sink. I love the pale yellow of the walls and the braided rug of colors in front of the tub, where Kristen is swishing a purple washcloth around in the water to make bubbles. I wait patiently until she's done, enjoying the heat of the room, watching the foamy suds as they pop up, white and fresh like soft snow. I can't wait to get in and wash up; I do not like going a day without shampooing my hair, it makes me feel. . .ew. Plus, I was taught to _always_ be clean.

"All righty," Kristen says in a satisfied tone, grinning at me as she stands up, and I smile back, pleased and secretly excited to play with the fluffy bubbles. She dries her hands on the towel behind her, saying, "So, if you need anything at all, just call for me. And, uh, be careful getting out, I don't want you to slip and hurt yourself."

Her genuine concern for me is touching; tears smart at my eyes again, but I hold them back this time. I nod my understanding of her words, my smile growing as I look at her. I can't think of anyone more beautiful.

"Thanks," I eventually manage to say before things get awkward by my staring. I can't help it, though. Does she even know how gorgeous she is?

"Sure." She nods, then bends down to turn off the flowing water. "We'll just be downstairs, so. . ." She shrugs a little, as if she isn't sure how to explain herself. Uneasy with words, just like me. "Yeah. You can stay for as long as you want. I mean, in here," she adds. "Just keep on adding warm water until you wanna get out." I get the feeling that first part about staying has a double meaning, but in the good way. I notice it immediately.

"Okay. I—I won't be long, though, I. . ." My cheeks turn pink when I continue bashfully, yet truthfully, "I like being around you guys. It's nice, you know, to—to find people who you feel comfortable with, and want to be around, and. . .I don't know, I just think that maybe you like being with me, too." I shuffle my feet, face as warm as the steam in the room. I'm usually not so sentimental. "And that's a good thing. I'm not used to this; this feeling of. . .of being okay. I know I've got a long way to go before I'm totally alright again, but this whole situation of possibly adopting me. . .I think it's kind of the beginning, you know? The start of something. . .new."

There's a brief moment of silence before I look up from my toes, somewhat afraid of what I'll see. But Kristen is looking at me with the strangest expression on her face—some sort of mix between wanting to cry so much yet trying to contain it, combined with fierce emotion in her eyes that turns them into a darker green. She doesn't say anything, but I see her jaw tighten as she tries to compose herself. I quickly put my things down on the counter and hurry back over to her, wrapping my thin arms around her middle and hugging her close to me.

_It doesn't matter_, I tell myself when she hugs me back tightly and kisses the top of my head. _It doesn't matter that you hardly know her. You'll become better friends as time goes on. You're actually good at making friends—you don't give yourself enough credit. If you like someone's company, you should keep seeking it. Life's short and you shouldn't spend it by being alone. Embrace the people who you find comfort in, and never let them go._

"Thank you so much. . .for all that you have done for me," I breathe into the soft cotton of her tank top.

Kristen squeezes me gently and says, her voice sincere and whispered, "You're welcome, kid." My eyes flutter shut and I smile, warmth in my heart, put there by the kindness of two people.

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><p>The water is soothingly hot against my skin as I sit here among the bubbles, arms around my legs with my chin on my knees. My eyes are closed, body relaxed, just feeling the heat and letting the stress roll off me. Now that I'm completely alone, the weight of my emotions and thoughts is resting on my shoulders, but they don't hurt—at least, not as much as they usually do. For once in my life I'm calm, unmoving and silent in the bubbly water.<p>

I think about Miss Karen. I wonder what she's doing right now. Probably sitting in her cozy office, her thin glasses perched on her nose as she signs papers and looks through important documents. Maybe she's with the children, giving herself a short break from work to spend time with them. Does she miss me at all, does she think about me too? I can't believe it's only been a day since I left when it feels like years. . .so many years. My heart sighs poignantly. If I miss her as much as I do right now, how will I live without her if I really do get to stay here?

A cold shiver races down my spine, and I shake my head to dispel the impending thoughts of sadness—because I don't _want_ to be sad anymore. I need to understand the bad in order to accept the good. With a sigh, I untangle my arms from my legs and let myself fall back into the water freely. I stay under for as long as I am able, my thick hair swirling around me like a wet cape, every faint sound becoming hollow, until my lungs burn. But I fight the pressure, trying to see how far I can go before I actually need air. One half of my mind is still aware, still in the present, still alive; but the other half is somewhere else entirely. . .I see the brilliant moon again, the breathtaking stars.

What is it about the night sky that I love so much? I guess one of the reasons is that it's dark and quiet, like me. We only show our true selves when we know we can, when it's the right time. We're patient, we don't complain if it takes too long. Nighttime is who I am and I have no other way to explain it. It's part of me.

Now I can't hold my breath anymore. I push myself up, out of the small ocean that surrounds me, eyes stinging and chest heaving as I gasp for air, gripping the side of the tub relentlessly in my shaking hand. I can't get the image of those stars out of my head, of the wide moon and its ethereal brightness. My ears ring with the shrill sound of a child weeping, calling out to nobody, calling out into the long night. _They're not coming back._

No. No, they're not coming back. None of them are. I've known that forever, but I can't accept it and I don't want to. Because the truth hurts, doesn't it? You make up lies and feed them to yourself to stay sane. I've been doing that for years, so many times every week that it's impossible to keep count. It's a selfish thing to do to my own mind, but it's instinct; humans survive only on the things they _want _to hear, not necessarily on what is real. It's a never-ending cycle of hunger for calmness that will only lead you to your sudden self-destruction.

Tears slip silently down my cheeks, welling up at the corners of my eyes and escaping hurriedly. I'm a shattered girl with an empty heart, and sometimes all I can do is cry. I curl up on my side in the warm water, so cold and small and afraid, my mind unable to hold back the flow of angry emotions that now begin to pour out.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I just hope that one day I'll find the right person to fill up the hole in my chest, to make it stop hurting.

* * *

><p>I cynically study myself in the mirror as I pull my brush through my long, damp hair. I feel so much better now; maybe not emotionally, but physically I'm fine. I picked out a long-sleeved blue shirt with a pair of jeans to wear, and as I was washing my hair I planned to braid it, but once I tried it I realized that it's too hard to do by myself and gave up. So now I'm just going to pull it back with a headband, since I'm so boring and can't think of anything else.<p>

A grimace forms on my pale pink lips as my green eyes trace over my features. Am I pretty? It's kinda hard to tell when I always look so worn-out and pale. I guess I could be, if I got a better nights' sleep and was a "normal" type of person who didn't suffer from bad dreams and heartache. But of course I'll never be like that.

I look away from my reflection and scoop my pajamas off the floor, turning off the light as I leave in a haste to get away from the mirror. I fix my headband as I descend the staircase, my hands shaking slightly for a reason that is beyond me. I'm going to ask Kristen if I can call Miss Karen. Just to say hi, to ask if she's okay. If that were me it'd make me feel really good to know that _someone_ cares, even if they're insignificant like me.

"Hi," I say shyly, walking into the bright living room and waving at Rob. He waves back and smiles at me happily, and I hear Kristen's voice greeting me cheerfully somewhere to my left in the laundry room.

"Hey! Did you have a nice bath?" she asks, emerging from the small, brightly lit room and gracing me with her breathtaking smile. I bob my head in response, avoiding her eyes so she can't see the lingering tears in mine—the very last thing I want to do is worry her all over again. So I keep my smile in place, forcing it to stay on my face so the shadows that follow me go unnoticed. But she senses them; I can see it in her expression, the slight trace of hesitance in her smile. She knows that they're there, latched onto me, burrowed deep in my skin.

"Here, I can wash these for you," she offers, gesturing to my pajamas, and I let her take them, grateful. "I'll wash anything you want me to, just let me know." I nod again, smiling more naturally at her offer, trailing behind her like a puppy as she heads back to the laundry room. I lean against the doorjamb and purse my lips; I want to ask her if I could use her phone, but I'm afraid of dropping it and possibly breaking it. It's like I should walk around in a suit made of bubble wrap so whatever I touch will be protected if I'm holding it. And I giggle to myself for some reason, just imagining what that would be like. I'd probably have to waddle like a penguin.

"What's so funny?" Kristen inquires curiously, pressing a couple buttons on the washing machine, and I only laugh harder at the question, scrubbing at my hot cheeks awkwardly with my sleeve, feeling very idiotic.

"Nothing," I exhale, seizing the chance to ask what I have to, even if it makes me nervous. "Um, if it's okay with you. . .could I, uh, call someone? On your phone?" Part of me hopes she'll say no, but I've been here for a day and a half and I already know that she'd never turn down someone's request if it's important like this.

"Of course you can," Kristen replies, reaching into the back pocket of her jeans to retrieve her cell. It's now that I finally realize that she got dressed while I was in the tub. I like the color of her shirt, it looks like the same reddish shade of the walls. _What a silly thing to notice_, I admonish myself, wondering why I'd even think something so random. Maybe it's because that I see almost everything and feel the need to have opinions for it.

She shows me which buttons to tap and where to go to dial a number. I try to conceal my fascination; I am honestly amazed with these iPhones—they're so lightweight and cool. I've never actually seen one up close before, so this is quite interesting. I mean, of course I know what they are, the commercials for them are always on TV. This is just my first time holding one.

"Thanks, Kristen," I murmur, giving her a sideways smile. "I won't drop it, I promise." _I hope I won't_.

She returns the grin and shakes her head. "Don't worry about it, kid. If it breaks, it breaks, no big deal; it's not like I can't buy another one." She shrugs. "It's just a phone." A giggle escapes my lips as I hold it tight.

I decide to go out on the back porch to talk to Miss Karen, since the weather is so nice today. I like the way the rays of sunlight dance upon the rippling surface of the water in the pool, turning it bright turquoise. As I stare at it, I'm briefly reminded of something I once had, a memory that's been long lost. There is a gorgeous, shimmering ocean and a white sandy beach, colorful starfish and seashells washed up on shore. I can hear the sparkling sound of a toddler's laughter as she scampers along the edge of the foamy waves. I know that I'm this child, an innocent baby of three who has no idea how drastically her life will change in a year, although I do.

I look away from the water, my throat swollen as a shudder passes through my shoulders. I've always had very faint memories from my past come back years later to invade my mind, but I'm never sure if they're real—but that's normal, right? I mean, I really don't understand it; if I have amnesia, why do I still remember things?

Oh, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. I'm here now and it's not important. My fingers close around the phone in my hand and I press the home button to turn it on, swallowing the urge to cry as I dial Miss Karen and fervently hope that she'll answer. I rest my chin in my hand and listen to it ring. And it rings and it rings. . .for the longest time. Eventually I have to try again, my heart drooping with disappointment. My face crumbles.

But then I hear something, a soft thump of some sort, and I raise my head in curiosity, looking around.

That's when I see it: a large red ball sitting beneath the fence, where a young boy is attempting to jump over.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! Again, I'm sorry for the hiatus, but it will be short and chapter 7 is coming soon!<strong>

**Link to my Tumblrs are on my profile :)**

**— Cherry xo**


	8. Part 1: Chapter 7

**HELLO FRIENDS I HAVE RETURNED**

**So sorry for the wait! Like I said, I've been busy moving and didn't have the chance to post anything last Saturday. But now I'm back with chapter 7!**

**We meet an important character in this one, and as much as you guys might dislike him at first, I promise he won't be like that forever ;) Also, be prepared for the DaddyRob feels! Okay that's all, bye.**

**If you're going to leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful!**

**(Also, quick recap: the last part in chapter 6, Mackenzie was outside trying to call Miss Karen, but then spotted the boy jumping up to the fence. Just a reminder in case you forgot!)**

_**Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!  
><strong>_

_**Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.**_

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><p>FLIGHTLESS BIRD<p>

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial

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><p><em>PART ONE: CHAPTER SEVEN<em>

I stare at him as he tries to grab on to the top of the fence. He grunts in frustration with each pointless jump, his hands slipping before he can take hold of the rail. I can't see him very well due to the thick ropes of ivy twisted through, above, and under the chain link barrier; it takes me a minute to realize I should go over there and help.

My feet carry me down the concrete porch steps and over to the small yard, my eyes never leaving this determined stranger. I'm still so surprised to see him that I don't do the obvious thing and toss the ball over the fence; instead I just stand here watching, observing him mutely. Eventually he manages to hook his fingers in a vine and pull himself up, and his shaggy blond head appears a moment later as he swings one leg over, then the other. He grips the fence as he steadies himself, lets go, and unceremoniously drops onto the earthy ground.

The boy is rather dramatic in his movements, dusting the dirt off his shoulders as he stands up clumsily. I don't move a muscle, my heart thudding in my chest when the startling realization sinks in. It'd be no use to just run and hide when he's already here and is going to notice me in a moment. _Maybe he'll just take his ball and go away_, I say to myself.

And just like that, he finally sees me, standing stiff and awkward a few feet away. He flicks his disheveled hair, but that doesn't keep it from sliding back into his eyes, which appraise me critically from head to toe. Then he finally speaks, his brows scrunching together as he squints at me. "BellaStew?" is the very first thing he says to me, and I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. He has a slightly raspy voice, and it's strange.

"You've shrunk," he continues in an astounded tone, assessing me again with now wide eyes, amazed.

"Excuse me." I sound cold and defensive; I don't like the way he's looking at me. I cross my arms and take a step back. "I have no idea what you are implying, but I would appreciate it if you'd stop doing that."

He scrunches up his flushed face in exaggerated confusion. "Doing what? I'm just surprised, that's all. What happened to you, anyway? I saw you two days ago and you were this tall." He stands up on his tippy toes and raises his skinny arm above his head to give an example of my supposed height. "So you shrunk somehow, Stew."

I wrinkle my nose in distaste at the nickname, irritated. "Stop calling me that. My name is _Mackenzie_."

"_Mackenzie_?" he repeats, squinting again. "What's a _Mackenzie_? Is that some new kind of animal. . .?"

My mouth falls open; oh, the _nerve_ of him! I scowl my fiercest and angrily flip my hair over my shoulder. "That's not a very nice thing to say to someone you just met," I answer, my voice almost a growl. I do _not_ like this kid.

He rolls his eyes. "Who said anything about me being nice?" he fires back heatedly, and I stare at him.

How can someone be so rude? I'm perplexed that even a little boy dares to speak to a person like this. Who is teaching him about manners? Well, whoever they might be, they aren't doing a very good job at it, that's for sure. "Haven't you ever been told how to behave in public? Normally, when you first meet someone, you have to shake their hand and say 'it's nice to meet you,' and then you can go on your way. You don't—you don't call them names and be _mean_."

He stares back at me with a funny look on his face, like he's trying to hide his exasperation with me. It doesn't really matter what he thinks of me, as long as I don't have to talk to him or be in his presence again; he is impolite and such a typical _boy_. His parents need to look into whatever system Rob's mom and dad used that turned him into the wonderful person he is today; obviously _they _were doing something right. I've been around boys before, but none of them acted like this kid does, which just proves that the real world isn't what it seems.

"Who are you, my mother?" he spits out, bending down to pick up his ball, completely dismissing what I just said.

"Get out of here!" I yell sharply, charging at him and shoving my hands roughly against his shoulders, furious. He stumbles backwards, eyes wide in surprise that a tiny, scrawny girl just pushed him. "Just—just go! Go away and don't throw your ball over here again or _else_." My attempt at being threatening only seems to entertain him.

He smiles, a slow, crooked, arrogant smile that shows off his unflattering teeth, and my anger is so hot that I can feel it pulsing in my fingertips. "Or else what?" the boy taunts, arching an eyebrow. He smirks at me.

I'm so mad I can hardly see straight. He has no right to come onto someone else's property and act like a total jerk to them. He could have just taken his ball and left—this whole conversation is totally unnecessary. If Grandma were here, she'd march him right back to his house by the ear and he wouldn't dare come back again.

"See? You're a girl, you can't do anything to me. And besides, it's a free country—I can do whatever I want to." He throws his head back and laughs. "C'mon, kid, calm down." He reaches out to give my shoulder a light shove, like he wants me to be convinced that he's just playing around and doesn't mean any harm. Well, good people don't want to hurt others; but it's hard to be persuaded of that fact when I'm around someone like this. I know that boys enjoy being rough and coming home with their clothes spattered in dirt, and that they talk loud, and how they tease us girls simply _because_ we are girls—and it really shouldn't be that way. It's. . .a very messed up situation.

"I don't like you," I seethe in a low voice. "And I can tell that _you_ don't really like me. So what you need to do is turn around, climb that fence, and _go away_, or else I will tell Kristen you were. . .trespassing."

He laughs at me again. "Sure you will. And even if she knew, she wouldn't care because she sees me come into her yard all the time to get my ball. It's not trespassing if the other person doesn't mind. So it's okay and I'm never gonna get into trouble. If it bothered her, she would have told me by now, but she's fine with it. So I guess your little plan just backfired, huh? It blew up in your face. What're you gonna do now?" He leers at me.

I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out at him a third time. "I'm not going to do anything," I declare truthfully, and his face falls in disappointment; obviously, he was hoping I'd try to fight back. "I don't like you or your attitude, and you don't seem to like me very much either, so I think the best way to end this is to go our separate ways. Unless you want to start over and try to be a gentleman. Which, to be perfectly honest, would be quite the accomplishment for you." He scowls, insulted, but it's true and he knows it. I can just tell by his eyes.

"Okay. Let's—let's try this again," he answers through gritted teeth. He reluctantly holds out a grimy hand for me to shake. "I'm Jared—uh, Jared Marks. It's _somewhat _of a pleasure to meet you." He tries to smile for me.

"Hello, Jared," I reply pleasantly, cringing internally when I have to grasp that dirty hand. Oh, it isn't even the _correct _one! I have to shake his left instead because he won't let go of that ball long enough to offer his right. I don't say anything, though—if we're starting over, I'm not going to tick him off again by pointing out his fault.

"So. . ." Jared says, releasing my fingers to comb his through the tangled mess of blond hair on his head. "How do you know Kristen?"

"Oh, um. . .she's a friend," I answer awkwardly, hoping I'm allowed to tell him the truth. Is it supposed to be a secret? I never thought to ask.

Jared looks at me funny. "A friend?" he repeats. "What, is she babysitting you or something? I've never seen you here if she's done it before." A short pause. "I dunno, she just never talks about you," he mumbles with a little shrug.

I don't know how to respond to that. "Well. . .I'm new around here. Kristen and Rob are kinda. . .taking care of me for a bit, I guess." I look down at my feet, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I can't just tell him that I am an orphan; how embarrassing would that be? I'd hate to give him another reason to make fun of me.

"How old are you?" he asks after another brief silence, finally changing the subject. Funny how he actually seems curious.

"I'm nine—my birthday is on November tenth. What about you?" My guess is around ten or eleven. _Or maybe even five, due to his childish behavior. _I try not to laugh at my own thought.

Jared shrugs. "Ten. I was born in August." That conceited smirk again. "Hey, that makes me older than you!"

"Congratulations," I say monotonously. "You're older than me by three months, what an achievement. By the way," and I decide to take a risk because I desperately want to know, "what is it with you and communicating impolitely with other people? I know you're a boy and all, but really, being nice isn't supposed to be difficult."

He dramatically rolls his eyes. "Haven't we been over this already? C'mon, dude, let it go. I'm not too concerned with what society thinks of me. You can't expect everybody to be perfect—that's not cool."

My eyes narrow, even if I know that he's right. After living in the orphanage for so long, I never really gave the outside world much thought. While I don't think _everyone _is sophisticated and nice, I must admit how surprised I am that it doesn't exist in some people. I suppose it's only in books, right? The ones written back in the olden days where we wore fancy clothes and attended grand parties and whatnot. We've evolved over time. Or should I say, only got nastier.

Jared is about to say something else when suddenly the back door to his house swings open loudly, and a tall woman steps out. She has a lot of heavy blonde hair that frames a pretty, youthful face, with big blue eyes and full rosy lips that curve into a smile when she calls out in a singsong voice, "Jared, sweetie, time for lunch!"

The humiliated shade of red that paints his cheeks will forever remain a priceless memory in my mind.

He glowers at me viciously when I laugh. I watch smugly as he climbs the fence, leaving without another word.

* * *

><p>"What's up with the obnoxious blond freak next door?" I ask grumpily as I close the sliding glass entry behind me. When I don't get an immediate response, it alarms me—but then I look up and see the issue, and my face contorts in a mixed expression of disgust and restrained curiosity. I stand here for a minute, my mouth hanging open in shock as Rob and Kristen kiss, progressively growing more and more grossed out the longer I watch. I feel the need to look away, like any normal person would do, and yet I can't; the stupid child in me is too enamored with this. . .sight of love.<p>

Eventually I manage to snap out of it and clear my throat pointedly. They break away from each other (audibly, I might add), her eyes shooting open and a scarlet blush immediately coloring her cheeks in embarrassment. Rob's hands jump to his hair as he tries to appear preoccupied. I smile awkwardly and try to look anywhere but at their faces, instead focusing on the corner of the couch, _really_ wanting to leave.

"S-sorry, what?" Kristen stammers, pulling her hair out of her face. "Oh, hi, Mackenzie."

"Hi," I say slowly, tentatively taking a step forward and biting my lip. I give back her phone, quickly explaining before she can ask, "Miss Karen didn't pick up. I guess she's busy or whatever." I shrug.

My attempt at sounding nonchalant doesn't seem to have an affect on either of them. They frown at me, eyebrows furrowing simultaneously (it's truly amazing how in-sync they are). But I don't want them to worry, I think I've caused them enough panic for today. So I change the subject. "Who is that annoying kid next door?" I inquire again.

Kristen gets this look on her face that makes me think she and Jared don't get along. "Oh, that's Jared." The tone of her voice confirms that suspicion, though I can't say I'm surprised. "Was he bothering you?" She winces, then sighs in relief when I shake my head upon instinct. "Good. He's. . .he can be quite the little—well, he's not the _nicest_ kid I've ever met. Bit of a brat, in my opinion. One time when I was outside reading a book, minding my own business, I hear his voice yell at me, 'Hey, BellaStew!'" Her own voice goes low in a surprisingly accurate imitation of him. "And it scared the crap out of me, because it was so quiet and suddenly there he is, shouting over the fence." She shakes her head.

The way she talks is endearing, and I find myself fighting back a smile by the time she's done with her story. "I talked to him," I say hesitantly. "He thought I was you for a minute. Or he could have just been messing with me. He called me that name, too. Boys are so weird," I add, making an appalled face.

Rob cracks a grin and Kristen laughs. "I have three brothers, so I have to agree," she giggles. "But, um, please tell us if he's bugging you, okay? He can be kinda mean and. . .you know, I just don't want you to get hurt." She shrugs, but her eyes are sincere. I blush and look down; her concern for me is still both shocking and heart-warming. I appreciate it a lot—I'm not used to being taken care of this way. Not that Grandma or Miss Karen were ever bad at looking after me by psychological means, but I've learned to adapt to life being the way it is. (Kind of. Sort of.)

"So, what do you wanna do today, little miss Foy?" Kristen ruffles my hair, which she seems to like doing; but I don't mind it one bit. They both look at me expectantly, ready for whatever it is that comes to my mind. I really have no clue what I'm in the mood for—all I can think of is just sitting around and watching TV. . .Oh, how pathetic. There must be _something _I want to do. Definitely not nothing, that's for sure. I'll never want to do just _nothing_. . .

"Hide and seek." The suggestion slips out of my mouth the second it pops into my head.

"I'm it!" Kristen shouts right away, throwing her arms up and grinning. I don't hesitate to run and find a place to hide; with an excited shriek of laughter, I hurry down the hall and swing myself around the corner up the stairs, my feet thudding on the carpeted steps as I race to the perfect spot—I have an idea of where I can go.

I open the smooth white door leading into the closet, giggling uncontrollably when I slide it shut. I hope she won't think to look here first; after all, the rest of the room is kind of crowded with stuff, and it took a few seconds for me to reach this closet. I slither down the wall and pull my knees up to my chest, stifling my giggles with my hand. It's pitch black in here and smells musty, but it's a small sacrifice to make when playing a game like this. Through the ringing in my ears, I listen to the muffled sounds in the rest of the house, trying to hear if Rob is upstairs too, but Kristen's sudden yell is the only thing I catch. "Ready or not, here I come. I'm gonna _find_ you!"

_I doubt it. _I snicker into my hand, looking down at the thin crack of light beneath the door. And so I wait.

* * *

><p>". . .a hundred and ninety-eight, a hundred and ninety-nine, two hundred." I let out an impatient sigh and frown.<p>

It's been three and a half minutes and Kristen hasn't found me yet. Now I'm bored and cold and feel like resigning from the entire game for her sake. I press my ear against the door and listen intently, wondering if she's already given up on me and is now waiting for me to forfeit. It's a rather tempting choice, I gotta admit.

I consider the option for a moment before deciding it's probably time for me to get out and see what is happening elsewhere. I grunt as I stand up, stiff from sitting in the same position, and I fumble a little and wind up bumping into the wall. My heart leaps in fear when an unexpected thud cracks the silence—something falls right by the door. _Oh no, no, no,_ I moan inside my head, hesitantly reaching for the handle. _God, no. Please, no, no—_

It won't open. My fingers close tighter around the knob and twist it, pushing the door forward, but the fallen object on the other side prevents it from moving. Before I can start to panic, I close my eyes and breathe in, my lungs expanding with air before I let it out. I try the knob again, shoving with all my fragile might, praying that it will open so I won't die in here alone. That's one of my biggest fears: facing death all by myself. What a sad, heartbreaking way to meet your end—not a single soul there to hold your hand and tell you things will be alright.

"No, no, no," I whisper repeatedly, alarm seeping into my voice as my heart thrums in my chest. I pull and push and shove and heave, using my already aching shoulder for assistance in my hopeless attempts to get out of here. My eyes sting with tears and the sheer terror that fills me is like nothing I've ever felt in my life—it's raw and cold, prickling at the edges of my nerves and licking through my veins like some sort of icy fire. I gasp out a sob, my left hand curled into my chest, clutching at my rapidly beating heart, with the right around the doorknob, so desperate. I scream out for help in the loudest voice I can muster, crying when I realize that they probably don't hear me, not at all.

"Guys! _Guys_!" I wail, banging my fist on the door as the tears roll down my cheeks. "Guys, get me out of here!" I can't breathe, _I can't breathe_. The blackness is constricting around my body like a giant snake, tight and inescapable; everything is so loud yet so quiet at the same time—it hurts my ears, it hurts all over.

Then I hear their voices, calling to me through the roaring silence, but I don't feel relieved—I only sob louder, ramming my fist into the wood and tugging on the doorknob. _I'm going to die alone, I'm going to die._

I'm abruptly blinded by the light of the room as the wretched door is ripped out of the way, and I open my teary eyes to see Rob standing there with a look of intense fright on his face. There's a moment where I am too stunned to do anything at all. Time stops, my heart stops, and I feel like I'm not alive anymore. He stares at me and I stare at him, then I let out a piercing shriek and throw myself into his arms. Rob is warmth and safety, so much comfort and kindness in one person; I only want him to hold me right now because he will protect me.

"Oh, honey," he whispers into my hair; and I'll never be sure, but I think his voice wavers, just a little. He clutches me just as urgently as I hang on to him, and I never, ever wanna let go. "It's okay, princess, you're okay. I got you. Shhh." His hand glides along my back, an automatic motion that soothes me slowly. I'm still so scared; I'm afraid the darkness within the closet is gonna reach out and pull me back in. And it is horrifying.

"D-don't let it get me," I whimper into his neck. "I don't wanna be taken away." I cling to him tighter.

"I know," he murmurs. "You won't be, angel, you're safe, I promise." He lets me cry on his shoulder—he's patient, knowing I'm frightened. He doesn't do all the things Kevin Egbert did. I'm held close, not pushed away, and rather than feeling shunned for all my weaknesses, I embrace them. All because of Rob and Kristen.

He sinks down onto the floor, cradling me in his arms. I refuse to lift my head, even when softer hands smooth my hair and rub my back. I almost forgot that Kristen is here in the room; she's been so quiet. The sobs that are stuck in my throat eventually make their way out again, and for once I don't try to contain them—it has gotten to the point were there's just no sense in doing so. I give in to my emotions and let them loose. I've been waiting so long.

I must sound like I'm in a great deal of pain. My wailing is constant and loud, ragged sobs and breathy gasps shuddering through my shoulders and chest. And I _am _in a great deal of pain, only nobody would believe me if I actually took the time to explain to them just how bad it is. They probably would tell me to be quiet and how other kids have it worse—and I know that already. I understand the world better than people think I do. All it takes is a broken heart and years of loneliness to open your eyes and truly see this earth for what it really is. I stopped hoping for a brighter future a long time ago. The world hates me and that's the cold hard truth. I accept it.

Warm tears pool at the corners of my eyes and slide down my face in an endless river. I feel empty yet so overflowing with sadness; how is it possible for one person to have such profound emotions? Especially me. I'm only nine years old and smaller than any kid my age that I know, but here I am anyway, crying out in fear—all because of a stupid door and the closet it lead into. I should have looked for a safer hiding spot, one where it would be easy to get out of. Mostly I wish I could be strong, able to stay composed in times of worry or drama.

I glance down and realize that I'm rubbing my wrists together, a nervous habit I've had for as long as I can remember; my hands always seem to be moving, fingers intertwining and knuckles straining. They tremble whenever I'm scared and my nails sometimes dig into my palms until the skin nearly breaks. It might hurt but I won't let it kill me. If only I could say that about other things, things I allow to hurt me. I'm a terrible fighter.

My damp eyes raise from my hands and drift over to the small closet. The darkness glares back at me, malicious, smug, haunting. It mocks me, knowing how prone I am to panic and misery. And I'll destroy it, I promise myself. One day.

Kristen follows my gaze, then quickly stands up to shut the door. She adds unnecessary force to it, and I get the sense she's trying to make it look like whatever's in there won't be able to escape anymore. She picks up a big box and sets it back down in front of the door, eventually just reaching for whatever object is in sight to build a tall barricade. When she's finished, you can hardly tell there's a door behind all that junk. She made it go away.

"There," she says in a self-satisfied tone, hands on her hips. "Now you're safe. Nothing will hurt you."

My lips curl into a small, involuntary smile. It's nice that she doesn't dismiss my worries like anybody else might; she shows me that by blocking the door, I will be protected. I hope we won't ever have to open it again.

Rob's fingertips lightly caress the side of my face, pulling my hair away from my tear-stained cheeks. My eyelids flutter shut at his touch, and for some reason I'm not surprised when his lips kiss my temple. It isn't that much different than his hugs or how he's holding me right now, but combined with all of that, I feel better.

"I'm sorry." The mumbled words come out thick and heavy, and it hurts to speak. My throat is aching.

"Don't apologize, it isn't your fault," Kristen murmurs in reply, and her emotional eyes are so truthful. She's sitting cross-legged in front of me now.

I shake my head, the guilt probably obvious in my strained expression. "Yes it is. I should've—should've at least _tried _to stay calm, but I didn't. I freaked out and—and started panicking and now look at me. I'm a total mess!"

Kristen looks upset by the time I'm done venting. I know she wants to help me, but there is nothing she can do.

"Thanks for your help, though," I add hoarsely, with a sorry attempt at a smile. I am so dreadful at expressing how I feel through words; I come off as dumb and awkward, even if I'm being sincere. But it doesn't sound as bad as I always think, at least not now when I'm here with Rob and Kristen. I mean, I'll never be perfectly articulate—I doubt talking aloud in full and coherent sentences will ever be my strongest trait. . .not after what happened with the Egberts. They stripped me of my voice entirely, breaking my heart just as I began to learn how to love again. They shattered my confidence, turned me against the world.

Suddenly I'm struck with a violent wave of terror, worse than anything I've felt today. I'm defenseless and small in a world of bad people and loneliness, but I don't want to be scared anymore. I'm tired of it and the pain of running from it only gives it more power. I am no warrior, just a girl with a scarred heart and a sad smile.

I turn my face into Rob's shoulder again, hugging my arms to my chest timidly. I want to sleep. I want to close my eyes and never wake up until life is okay. I want, I want, I want. But all the things I want, I can't have.

"Do you wanna go lie down?" Rob murmurs, planting a kiss to the crown of my head. I nod drowsily—oh, the couch and that snuggly blanket sound heavenly at the moment. I cling to Rob's shirt as he slowly untangles himself from his spot on the floor, still holding me as he stands up, with Kristen grasping his arm to help him. I let my eyes fall shut, enjoying the feeling of being embraced this way; like he actually cares about me. It's. . .almost odd.

Well, to someone else it would be considered normal, but it's just different for me; it's weird, but nice.

I'm carried out of the room, and everything moves sluggishly after that. There's the soothing silence, a heartbeat in my ear, and the meaning of hope clutched in my fist. I like the softness of his shirt, and the warmth of his skin underneath, and I wouldn't trade this moment for anything in the world; it's too precious to give up.

We're downstairs again. I'm still in his arms, now with a blanket wrapped around me. I haven't let go.

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><p>I just remembered that I didn't take my medicine today. My eyes flutter open at this unsettling realization, but it doesn't startle me enough to actually get up and swallow them; I'm much too comfortable where I am. I'm on the couch next to Rob, my head in the hollow beneath his shoulder, curled into myself for warmth. I haven't slept that good in a long time; as tired as I still am (I'll never <em>not <em>be exhausted), it was nice to just take a nap—I think maybe being with Rob helped a little. He calms me down so quickly; no one's ever had that effect on me.

Of course, I'm not dismissing the fact that I once had Grandma and Miss Karen. They were calming to me as well, and they took care of me in their own way. I won't ever forget that. But this time is sorta different; I don't know what it is but there's just something else about these two that makes it all better. I'm not as afraid.

Taking precaution not to disturb him, I carefully slide my way out from under Rob's arm as I stand up. The sudden shift in balance makes the blood flow down rapidly from my head, and I sway in place, hoping that I won't topple over. But my vision comes back a second later and I'm still upright on my feet, wavering slightly. I glance down at Rob, who is fast asleep; a tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I sigh, wrapping my arms around my middle as I turn away, wondering vaguely where Kristen is. The house is echoingly silent; it's eerie.

I amble about the house for a couple minutes, searching for Kristen, finally getting a better feel for this place now that I have the time to explore on my own. I notice the smooth texture of the walls, the thin cracks in between the tiles along the floor, how the mahogany wood of the banister feels on my palm as I head upstairs. I really do love it here; there's just an air of _home _and _security _that lives within each room. It's kinda sorta dreamy.

I hear the specific sound of Kristen's voice when I pass by her and Rob's bedroom door; naturally, the childlike draw to eavesdrop on an adult's conversation takes over, and I step back furtively to listen. I'd be in so much trouble if Grandma were here—she'd pull me away and give me a long severe scolding about the evils of snooping. But she's not here and she won't do that and she can't, because she's gone and isn't coming back. . .right? I thought I already established that with myself. My tendency to mull over old stuff has become an actual issue.

I clasp my hands together, leaning against the doorframe while I try to figure out who Kristen is talking to. Her tone is quiet but friendly, and she's saying something about—oh dear, about me? My eyebrows shoot up and the beat of my heart lurches forward. Maybe my breakdown earlier made her realize how much trouble her and Rob are going to be in if they—agh, I can't even think it to myself for fear of jinxing anything. I know I am just being superstitious and probably much too worried about the whole situation, but can you blame me after it fell to pieces the first time? If it happened all over again, _I would not be able to survive_. My life would be finished.

After all, the human heart can only take so much. I won't give you mine if you don't plan to care for it.

"Oh, yeah, she's fine now," Kristen is saying nonchalantly. My nails are digging into the skin of my palms. "She fell asleep not too long ago, and I haven't heard a peep out of her in a while. . ." She pauses to let the other person answer. "Really?" She sounds taken aback. "No, I—no, she never told me that," she says honestly, forlornly. I think I know who it is now. It's rather obvious and I'm annoyed that I didn't realize it sooner. Who else would it be?

Catching my lip in my teeth, I lean forward slightly to peer through the gap in the door at Kristen, who is perched on the edge of her messy bed, scratching absentmindedly at her knee while she talks. The expression on her face is almost bewildered, as if she's having a hard time grasping the concept of what Miss Karen said; I wonder what it was exactly, and telling by Kristen's face, it's apparently something unsettling. My sharp intake of breath is barely audible over the rapid thrumming of my heartbeat at the thought of her changing her mind—

And then—unsurprisingly—somehow I lose my balance. The carpeted floor spins up to meet my face—there is one high-pitched shriek of terror, quickly followed by another, both cutting through the air like knives—the low sound of a body hitting the ground—a tiny grunt of pain—and finally, Kristen exclaims breathlessly, "Oh my God!" I lift my head.

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><p><strong>Hehe, I hope you enjoyed! This chapter is one of my favorites so far (: What do you guys think of Jared?<strong>

**Next chapter will be here soon! Thanks so much for reading. Maybe leave a review as an early Christmas present? :3**

**Links to my Tumblrs are on my profile!**

**— Cherry xo**


	9. Part 1: Chapter 8

**Hello again! I hope everyone is having a happy holiday season so far :)**

**Unfortunately this is the last completed chapter until I finish chapter 9. I don't know when that will be but I promise I'm going to try my hardest to get it done soon for you guys! Thank you with all my heart for reading and reviewing, it truly means the world to me.**

**Just so you know, this chapter acknowledges Mackenzie's anxiety further and you learn more about one of the things that triggers it. I did plenty of research on anxiety and panic disorders beforehand so hopefully my attempt at writing it will be satisfactory. But please don't hesitate to inform me on anything you think is missing or was written incorrectly, I will happily do my best to fix it! No disrespect is intended.**

**Enjoy!**

**If you're going to leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful!**

**(Also, quick recap: the last part in chapter 6, Mackenzie was outside trying to call Miss Karen, but then spotted the boy jumping up to the fence. Just a reminder in case you forgot!)**

_**Disclaimer: This story is based off real people, but in no way am I associated with them, their friends, families, or management. This fanfiction is all for fun and I mean no harm in it!  
><strong>_

_**Copyright: These are my ideas and my ideas only. Please do not copy.**_

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><p>FLIGHTLESS BIRD<p>

a Mackenzie Foy fanfiction by cherrycordial

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><p><em>PART ONE: CHAPTER EIGHT<em>

"Hang on, I'll call you back—no, everything's fine, Mackenzie just fell—"

_How many times can a single person mess up in one day? _Apparently, a lot. My face is probably as red as a fire truck right now; I can feel the heat under my skin, blood boiling in my cheeks and tears smarting at my eyes. Despite the dull ache in my elbow and burn in my palm, I push myself up off the floor and fidget with my shirt sleeves. My fingers are trembling. Kristen is still talking but my ears are ringing so loudly that I can't hear her words. All I can think in this moment is,_Why me, why me, why me? _Because, really, you'd think that life would give me a short break.

Oh, goodness, who am I kidding? I'm never gonna get a break from this. Every day of my existence is an issue. It's always something with me.

"Are you okay?" Kristen's standing in front of me all of a sudden. She's too close—I'm gonna wind up hurting her in some way, considering I manage to just fall down and injure my own self for no apparent reason.

"Um, yeah." My voice comes out awkward and cautious. "Did that really happen?" I ask squeakily, my nervous tone rising as I turn around to inspect the source of the accident, vaguely wondering how it occurred. I don't think the cat walked by and startled me or anything, unless I was too focused on Kristen to notice him. I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case considering my history of self-inflicted wounds. I have to pay closer attention to my surroundings if I want to survive or else one day I'm gonna get squished flat by some big truck.

We stand in uncomfortable silence for a minute, until I muster up enough courage to lift my head a bit. I can't say I regret it; something about Kristen's face makes me feel less idiotic. It's because she isn't laughing, or trying not to smile out of amusement at my klutziness. She doesn't eye me with disapproval or seem irritated that I interrupted her phone call. She just looks. . .discomfited. As if she's being drowned in the same amount of weird emotions that I am, like she knows what it means to always make mistakes and appear to be very foolish. We were both cursed with this unshakable tendency to mess things up constantly, and being unable to fix them.

"Sorry," I whisper softly, an ill-timed smile pulling up at the corners of my mouth. Kristen smiles, too.

"It's okay, babe," she laughs nervously, shaking her head and pushing her wavy hair behind her ears to give herself something to do so she won't make eye contact with me. "I do stuff like that all the time. I get it." I know she does. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, the more I mess up the easier it'll be to shake off the shame and not want to melt into a puddle on the floor. _She understands_, I think. _She's not going to laugh at you, Kenz._

So I just nod in agreement and try to act casual. "Sorry if I—" _Stop saying you're sorry! _I flinch at how angry my inner demon sounds. I haven't heard that voice in a surprisingly long while. "Um, I'm gonna go. So I don't, y'know, bother you any further. . ." I turn to make a hasty getaway out the door, my dumb face reddening yet again, and as I hurry down the stairs I half-expect to hear Kristen call after me or say something dramatic—but alas, my life is not a movie and I don't believe Kristen would ever make it seem like one. That is ridiculous.

Rob is starting to wake up when I return to the living room. He's so disheveled and scruffy-looking—which isn't a bad thing, of course, I find it rather endearing. Well, it seems as if everything about Rob is lovable to me. . .but any person with a good pair of eyes could see how kind and sweet and funny he is. He's like a big puppy.

"Hi, Rob," I say quietly, careful not to alarm him. He turns his head towards me, his expression briefly perplexed until he sees me standing there, and relaxes. A light smile graces his lips, sleepy yet genuine, content.

"Hey, princess," he murmurs. "Why'd you leave me all of a sudden?" He means it jokingly, but a pang of guilt stabs at my heart anyway. So I run to him, falling into his arms and cuddling up to his warm chest in an attempt to wordlessly express my regret for abandoning him. He hugs me tenderly, swaddling me in the blanket and planting a kiss to the top of my head, eliciting a surprised giggle from my lips. "Oh, good, you came back."

"How could I stay away?" I breathe theatrically, tossing my head to the side, laying it on thick so it will make him laugh. And to my surprise, he actually does, despite my sense of humor being too rusty and dull.

"No, really, where'd you go?" Rob inquires curiously with a lopsided grin.

"Uhm, I went to find Kristen." I start to play with my hands, trying to appear distracted. I would prefer to keep that whole _incident _between me and Kristen; I know Rob wouldn't make fun of me, but still. It's dumb.

"Oh. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I just woke up and wanted to see where she was. She's upstairs on the phone." _Be casual, Kenz. He won't suspect anything if you act normal. _My brain is probably exaggerating the unfortunate situation. But, me being me, I will not take chances when it comes to my future, and the less mistakes I make the more eager I hope they'll be to keep me. If Rob finds out about this ridiculously unnecessary occurrence, I would die if he. . .well, if he finally realizes that I've been right this entire time. I'm _not _worth anybody's time or patience; there's nothing inside of me that will ever amount to much. I am just Mackenzie. Boring, not-amazing Mackenzie Foy.

I might be different than others in some ways, but overall I'm about as useful as a single speck of dust.

To hide the chagrined blush seeping into my cheeks, I bury my face in Rob's neck and sigh deeply. All I want is to simply fall asleep for the longest time, to not have nightmares or wake up crying or be scared of the dark or feel like death when I awake. I'd like to slip into unconsciousness and forget absolutely everything so it won't hurt as much during the day, so I won't wind up making a complete fool out of myself. I'd probably be a better person if, for once in my life, I got the usual eight or nine hours of rest. Maybe then I could actually pass as a decent human being.

A light sigh whispers through my lips. The main reason why I get like this is because without my pills, a crucially significant factor in my everyday behavior, I start to fall apart, piece by piece. My medicine helps to control how I act, lessening the risk of hurting myself or other people in the vicinity. My doctor used big words I didn't understand to describe it, explaining how it affects my moods and "adrenaline levels" (see what I mean there when I say big words? I may be smart but I honestly don't know what adrenaline is). I feel like some days it works and other days it doesn't, and that means it's either a defective prescription or my body is refusing it.

Halfheartedly untangling myself from the safety of Rob's arms, I decide that no matter how hopelessly and ineffectively my medication works, from the beginning I promised Miss Karen I would always take it. "I'll be back," I exhale wearily, giving Rob a doleful look as I stand up. "Gotta go get my meds. So fun, let's party."

He snickers at my sarcastic remark and nods understandingly. "'Kay. Mind checking on Kristen, too?"

"Sure," I reply willingly, heading towards the stairs. Coincidentally, Kristen comes out of her bedroom the same moment I arrive at the top of the steps with a slight scowl upon my face. "Hey," I mutter indifferently.

"Hi." She stops in her tracks, looking at me apprehensively. "Uh, are you okay? You look. . .annoyed."

I shrug, tugging at my shirt sleeve. "I forgot to take my medicine today and that's kinda sorta bad. . .So, I'm gonna do that now, even though at this point I don't think it's gonna make much of a difference," I explain, my tone just as cynical as I feel. Yeah, I definitely have to find my pills or else my anxiety will become a larger problem than it already is. I have to try and reduce the risk of future disasters as much as I possibly can.

"Why do you say that?" Kristen inquires, frowning. "Doesn't it—I mean, is—is it not working for you anymore?"

"Not really. Well—no, it does. Sometimes. I don't know why I said that, nevermind." A short awkward laugh escapes me before I can suppress it. "Oh, uh, Rob's awake; he was asking about you," I add hastily. With that pleasant piece of information, I hurry down the remainder of the hallway towards the room where I stashed my things; the same room, I am quickly reminded, that Rob and Kristen so generously decorated for me. I have not been in here long enough to truly appreciate the simple beauty of the furniture, how nicely and perfectly the pastel colors go together. Such a big, lovely gesture for such an insignificant little person. My throat closes up.

Once again, their profound kindness is staggering. My spending time in their home must mean more to them than I originally gave them credit for. Nobody expecting to have a guest for only a short while does stuff like this. They don't buy a beautiful dresser and bed and nightstand and braided rug and lamp and rocking chair—not unless they're optimistic that everything will surely work out. Is that what they think? Is that what _I_ think?

Suddenly weak at the knees, I stumble over to the bed and sink onto the edge of the yellow comforter (which, by the way, is as soft and fluffy as a cloud). My lungs ache and my eyes are watery; I am still not used to being pampered like this. Never in my life have I met two people who genuinely want to sacrifice their freedom _for_ me, the scary adult freedom that is now going to be all messed up _because_ of me. Don't they know just how much they're gonna be forced to part with if they adopt me? I have no clue what they're thinking. It's puzzling.

Before I practically puke all over the carpet from nerves and dizzy thoughts, I hurry to find my suitcase so I can finally gulp down my medicine and be with Rob and Kristen again, only I won't be so jittery when I'm sitting there doing whatever it is we plan on doing. We could watch another movie, maybe. . .Hopefully something Disney.

My mind starts to wander as I amble distractedly around the room, searching for my belongings. I soon realize that I can't remember where it was I put them; alarmed, I stand up straight, eyes going wide. _Oh no, this could be bad. This could be very, very bad. Where's your bag? Where'd you leave it? Come on, Kenzie, think. . .Oh, is it in the closet? Is that where it is? _I check the small, half-empty closet. Nope. _What about the bed? Look under the bed, it's probably there! _On my hands and knees, I peek below the bed, and see nothing. _Alright, well—okay, don't panic. Do _not_ panic. You haven't looked everywhere yet. Get up and explore the whole room._

I can't keep the waves of terror from crashing into me as I gradually lose my head. Any memory of my suitcase and the precious items inside become faded and distant, my frantic, labored breathing constricting how easily I move to the point that I can't any longer; awfully light-headed, I sink to the floor and curl onto my side, gasping for air. Where is it, where is it, where is it? If I don't have it—well, I dunno what I'll do. . .die, perhaps? (Imagine Rob or Kristen walking in on the sight of me lying here, pale and unresponsive. An actual nightmare.)

_Get up, _my inner voice says again in a furious snarl. _Quit acting like a big baby! Breathing normally is not that hard and you really shouldn't be on the verge of tears, for goodness' sake. Just go ask Rob and Kristen for help, you can't keep denying how much they care. They won't laugh at you for misplacing your stuff, stupid._

I want to go to them. God, I want to. So many times in the past where I didn't have to go through something alone and yet wasn't brave enough to seek comfort in others; I suffered on my own because I fully convinced myself that I am not worth saving. My life will never be important or special. Why bother worrying people if I can just mend my problems unaided? I can't keep doing that to them; they shouldn't have to deal with the monster I am.

So I try again. Shoulders aching from the strength of my suppressed sobs, I unsteadily force my legs to support the weight of my thin figure. I'm only about seventy-five pounds, but right now it feels like a thousand.

"Mackenzie?" Who is that? Who's calling me? I can hardly hear over the hollow ringing in my ears. I think it might be her, though. Wait, who would that be? Who is she? I don't know, I don't know, I don't remember anything—I don't remember anything—my suitcase! Oh, my suitcase. My medicine. Where is it? I have to find it, or else I will die. Maybe. Probably. It's a possibility, at the very least. But I'm _not_ gonna die, right? Right? Oh, who cares! So what if I die! Nobody is going to miss me anyway! Okay, I guess I care just a little bit. Am I ready to die—?

_Are you ready to die? _No, no, no. _Liar. _No, no, no. _Liar, liar, liar. _No, no, no! _Too late. Liar, liar, liar._

My fault. This is my fault. It's always my fault. There's no denying it; bad things occur because of me.

"_Look what you've done_!" Everything goes dark for a split second as I close my eyes. My cheek burns. "_What the hell is the matter with you_?!" Silence save for the pounding of my heart. "_No, I—didn't mean that_—"

"I need my medicine. Kristen, I need my medicine. Do you—do you know where it is?" _Too late. Liar, liar, liar._

_You're gonna die but you're not ready. _"Uh—y-yeah, um—yeah, I do. C'mere, sit down, I'll go get it." _She's too late. You didn't even tell her your bag is missing. She won't be able to find that, either, you dumb kid._

Warm arms holding me, gently guiding me, lifting me back onto my feet. She's soft like a fluffy pillow—her hugs are so nice. . .so, so nice. I'm not as scared when she hugs me. I gaze after her retreating form through the wetness in my eyes, barely able to stay upright. I grip the edge of the bed in my sweaty palms, sharp breaths piercing the center of my heaving chest. My heart is struggling to continue beating and it hurts and I don't know what to do.

"_Kevin!_" The woman's frightened voice is shocked. "_Kevin, why did—how could you do that to her—?_"

"_I didn't mean to!_" he shouts, panicked. The side of my face hurts. "_I swear, I—it was an accident! I'm so sorry, Mackenzie, are you okay? Can you hear me, honey?_" Why is he touching me? He hurt me, he hurt me. I don't want him touching me. Don't touch me, don't touch me! Where is Kristen? She'll save me, won't she?

"Hey, I found your stuff! It's all here in the bathroom."

. . .What?

_She said she found your stuff, stupid girl. You can stop whining now._

My lips quiver. My blood goes cold. _The bathroom_. After my bath I must have moved my suitcase and now forgot that was where I. . .where I put it. . .well, dang. I could've had my pills already if I'd looked harder. I can't believe I just had a panic attack over literally nothing. Absolutely nothing! I'm a freak. A psycho. Insane.

"You and Rob need t'—t' have me admitted to a. . .mental hospital or somethin' because I need help," I inform Kristen drowsily, dabbing my streaming eyes with my shirt sleeve and choking on tears. The floor spins and the sunshine is too bright. It's getting tougher to breathe; my lungs are screaming for air. I gotta calm down soon or I'm gonna wind up passing out.

She found it, she found it. My medicine, she got it for me just like she said she would. Why is my head still hurting so much? I don't know, I don't know. I want someone to hold me.

"Shhh," the angel at my side soothes, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear. "You're not leaving us. We aren't taking you anywhere. No mental hospitals, no doctors, no nothing." She scoots closer to me, planting a kiss near my temple, taking my hand in both of hers. "I'm here," she continues quietly, "I got you."

She helps me swallow my pills one at a time, making me gulp a bunch of water that tastes so cold. The hysteria of my panicked ordeal gradually wears off; her comforting presence is a contributing factor to the calm tiredness that seeps into my bones. I lean against her shoulder, vaguely wondering if there will ever come a day when I can simply wake up, put on some clothes, and go out to face the morning without having to worry about my behavior or if I'm gonna have a seizure in public and the scare the pants off innocent pedestrians. It's awful enough for Rob and Kristen—I shudder to picture random people staring at me in horror as I convulse violently on the ground.

"Do you wanna lie down for a while?" Kristen suggests in a whisper. Faintly nauseous, I fall backward onto the pillow and relish the cool fabric of the sheets. I'm so sleepy, so _exhausted_. Anxiety really leaves a mark on you, doesn't it? Not just your mind, all over your body, inside and out. Grey circles appear around your eyes from lack of rest because you're constantly awake, tossing and turning throughout the night. Battle scars visible to your sight only, carved into the skin of your arms, legs, stomach, face, neck; everywhere. Anxiety is combat.

The worst part about it is that it's silent. No one knows you're agonizing; you keep it locked up inside.

The last thing I feel before slumber claims me completely is the light brush of the angel's lips on my forehead.

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><p>The funny thing about dreams is how real they seem. Actually, depending on what happens, it isn't entertaining at all; the more lifelike the dream, the more frightened you become. Today, my nightmare is a historic memory.<p>

Rewind one year and six months. April first, 2009. A skinny, traumatized eight-year-old girl is so close to breaking down in tears; the sobbing boy in front of her stares at her with betrayal in his eyes, a trio of bloody scratches cut across his reddening right cheek. Her heart is beating like a caged bird fighting to escape from the confines of its metal trap, angrily thumping a pair of strong wings against her lungs. A furious monster is above her small trembling frame, looming and intimidating, roaring at her, and she has nothing to defend herself with.

She is just a little girl, after all. Little girls shouldn't have to protect themselves; that's the parents' job.

His hand shoots out faster than a bolt of lightning and swiftly smacks her face, and it hurts. It hurts like no other pain she's ever felt before. Her fading vision is obscured by the salty moisture brimming at the corners of her eyes, overflowing in a little waterfall towards her chin, blurring the monster's abruptly horrified expression.

He says he didn't mean to. He says it was an accident. He asks if she can hear him. He can't be trusted.

They _always_ say they didn't mean it, they _always_ say it was an accident, they _always _say they're sorry. But you could apologize to me a million times and the words wouldn't hold any remorse. You're not sorry, Mr. Egbert, and you never will be. You hurt me, you broke my faith in people. Both you and your wife are demons.

If there is one thing I truly, desperately want to ask you two, it's this: are you glad you gave up on me?

_Are you happy now?_

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><p>I awake without a sound. Nothing but stillness and warmth surround me, similar to a cozy velvet blanket draped over my body, or a long-lasting hug from someone I love. I'm lying on my back, limbs sprawled numbly across the mattress, chest rising and falling in time to the steady beat of my heart. The room is filled with orange light.<p>

What time is it? I can't figure out how long I've been asleep right away, but I think it's late evening. I notice the window is fully open to allow fresh air inside, and the slivers of sky I see are a breathtaking pale red. I shut my eyes and inhale the sweet October breeze. I slept good, better than expected after my ordeal earlier. It really drained me of energy, huh? Which is usually what happens after a panic attack or a seizure; it's expected.

Echoes of my nightmare creep at the edges of my semi-conscious mind like an irritating itch that's just so impossible to get rid of no matter how hard you scratch it. I don't wanna remember it. I don't wanna see him or relive his cruelty. I don't wanna be afraid anymore. That day has haunted me ever since it ended, and thrown into the mix of other disturbing occurrences, it's obvious why I hardly sleep. How am I supposed to when there are evil beasts chasing me? I honestly never catch a break. I totally forget what pleasant dreams are even about.

I doze in and out of consciousness for a while, still aware of the bed beneath me but lost inside myself. I drift weightlessly, going nowhere, watching the rapid flickers of pastel colors and indistinct faces. Minutes go by unnoticed; time doesn't seem to exist anymore. The peaceful calm of approaching nighttime is so satisfying.

At some point a small indescribable sound to my left causes me to stir, and my brow furrows faintly. It is significant enough to tug me out of my comfortable little oblivion; I instinctively strain my ears to listen. The nearly inaudible pad of footsteps on carpet alerts me to another presence in the room, but I'm not alarmed by it. Instead it comforts me, mostly because I just _know_ who is here, almost intuitively.

"Rob. . .?" His name is spoken in a disoriented murmur; I'm not sure if he even heard me, I'm so quiet.

But luckily he did, because he responds with a soft, "Hey." Kneeling at my bedside, he reaches out and lightly caresses my cheek. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I was only checking on you. Everything alright?"

I tilt my chin upwards, a tiny hum of assurance resonating in my throat. His voice is smooth; it reminds me of satin, and if the fabric were to possess noise, it would sound just like Rob. That makes no sense, though. Oh, what am I _thinking_? Material doesn't make any sound, how ridiculous. Good thing I didn't actually say it.

"You've been out for a while," Rob informs me as my eyelids flutter apart. "It's almost eight o'clock."

"_What_?" I gasp groggily, shaking the life back into my hands and rubbing my face urgently. "How is it—it got so late—eight o'clock, really?" I gaze around in bewilderment, taking in the sunset's absence with a tiny huff of surprise. "Oh, no," I moan, flopping onto the pillows again as a disappointed pout forms on my dry lips.

"It's okay," Rob comforts me quickly. "You were tired, you deserved to get some sleep. I'm not mad."

I sigh wearily. "I know you're not, Rob." My attempt at a smile is pitiable when I go to sit up. Wincing at the stiffness in all my poor, aching muscles, I reluctantly force myself into an awkward half-leaning position.

"You hungry?" Rob asks, his tone brighter now that I'm coherent. "Kristen's going to make spaghetti."

_That _certainly grabs my attention. I haven't had spaghetti in years, not after that one incident years ago when a disorderly boy named Scott started throwing his plate of noodles and red sauce at unsuspecting victims.

The once-forgotten memory induces a laugh from my lungs. Rob grins and giggles, too, and I reach for him. He leans forward to embrace me, simultaneously standing and lifting me off the bed in one swift motion. I beam at him elatedly, happy to be in his arms, and the tender expression in his clear blue eyes is breathtaking; a warm sensation blooms in my tummy and I feel _loved_. I wonder if this is what it's actually like to have a daddy.

_No, no, no. _No, I can't jump to conclusions so soon. Can't get my hopes up again. _Rob isn't my father._

Oh, but how I wish he was! He's absolutely perfect. He is everything I could want in a dad. He's_good_.

"Wanna see who can race the fastest down to the kitchen?" I challenge, tauntingly arching an eyebrow.

"Game on," Rob drawls, abruptly setting me on the floor and dashing out of sight. Funny how I wasn't being serious when I said that, though of course he's exactly the type who would believe me. He's a weird guy, I will admit; but I'd hate to see him act any other way. That's who he is: you either take it or leave it all behind.

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed, thank you so much for reading! Chapter 9 will hopefully be here soon :)<strong>

**Links to my Tumblrs are all on my profile! Happy holidays :3**

**— Cherry xo**


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